Dragon Effect
by Ravenpuff
Summary: Discontent with what the war's left him, Harry abandons his peaceful world for 1973, when critical moments weren't known as such. He seeks out familiar people with the aim of forming bonds that will change the world. Not DH compliant. Slash
1. Setting Off

Dragon Effect

Story Summary: Harry has lived with an obsessive mania revolving around 'what-ifs' and 'could haves.' This has lead him to eventually apply his theories to real life and risk a journey to a younger Earth which seems to have evolved in his world's footsteps. At twenty-five, he arrives in his new world's year of 1973, where he intends to make waves in a very calculated fashion. He seeks out familiar people with the aim of forming bonds that will literally change the world.

Disclaimer: I get nothing out of writing this story except my own enjoyment and no infringement on the series' creator, publishers or distributors rights is intended. J. K. Rowling owns the game, I'm only playing. Speaking of, have you seen those neat Harry Potter plushies yet? Cute!

Notes: This fanfic is not DH compliant and will likely never even come close to being so. Chapter one and most of chapter two was written before the release date for the seventh book had even been announced, so obviously its content is contrary to canon, in many places. These were my predictions and I intend to hold on to them. It is perhaps important to note that _the Hogwarts Library is located on the fourth floor_ in this story. I've also adapted a secret passage from the Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets video game into being 'Ravenclaw's Corridor.' His bedroom's peculiar layout is the copy of an actual room in the game.

WARNINGS: I was detail-oriented (crazy) while writing the first and second chapters. As in over the moon, around the bend, to grandmother's house we go, mad. I've intentionally left this insanity standing and will not apologize, so risk compulsively banging your head against a hard surface AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION. Other than that, though I think it's silly that this would require a warning, this story might later include slash - sorry, SLASH, since I rather like Harry when he's snogging other blokes. If he does hook up with someone, it won't be an original character and the importance of his relationship to them will be minor in comparison to his other, platonic entanglements. Maybe a heroic and hot Prewett brother? I'm not sure yet. Every time I try to picture 'Fabian' my mind conjures up an image of 'Fabio' and for 'Gideon' I get 'Godric.' Whoever they are, if I bother pairing Harry with someone there will be (possibly graphic) SEX, although for _this_ Harry 'lovemaking' would be a more apt term. VIOLENCE may occur from time to time as well, in the form of either graphically gross curses or fist fights. Physical and emotional ABUSE of minors will eventually be not only discussed at length but also featured, as Harry is going to be assuming a significant role in the lives of his students. Two guesses just which domestic nightmare he intends to interfere with. AIR SICKNESS might be induced by random chapters, this first one at the top of the list as it made me woozy to write it.

Chapter 1: Setting Off

As the morning sun fell upon Hogwarts, Harry Potter lazily stretched his legs under the soft blue covers of his bed; this was probably the last time he'd wake up in these particular quarters of the castle and he intended to bask in his comfort as long as possible. Eyes still closed, he whispered "Good morning, Lady," to Hogwarts Castle, and snuggled deeper into his bedding as her response came. Not touching the original stonework dampened the effect but he could still feel a soft wave of sensation all about him and this morning it was quite like a hug from Mrs. Weasley. She knew of his plans to leave and unlike on his graduation day, when he still hadn't spoken to her beyond giving passwords and she'd been more than ready for him to get on and go like all the other seventh years, today she was sorry to see him go.

Of course, he'd learned appreciation in his knowledge of the castle, which changed his explorations and interactions immensely. Harry was a resident who did not slam doors or curse moving staircases and this alone improved Hogwarts' opinion of him. That he was ridiculously well-formed helped as well, for he bore not only the mark of Slytherin in his parselmouth ability and the sorting hat's approval as a 'true Gryffindor' but also the much-diluted blood of Ravenclaw, unknown by his parents but proven by his presence in Rowena Ravenclaw's former bedroom. While in the library's section on magical theory, he'd accidentally stumbled upon her personal corridor, which featured nine doors and a split stairwell leading to the second floor. In order to gain access to this corridor one only needed to speak the password, _Stet Fortuna Domus_, but the doors within were known to only open for an heir of the Ravenclaw family - Harry later learned he was descended not from Rowena but from her bastard half-sister, a tie which apparently was close enough.

After being hired by Headmistress McGonagall as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, he requested the Ravenclaw corridor, which was unused and fairly useless for anyone else except as a shortcut to the library, be his personal domain in the castle. It was extremely convenient and he considered it to be a heavy win. Rowena had taught three subjects at Hogwarts and one was where DADA classes were currently held. Harry had opened a door on the middle floor in the corridor, which was even with the third floor of the castle, and found the back of a large portrait. Behind or in front of this portrait, depending upon your perspective, was the defense classroom. At the time he'd considered it unlucky, as a class had been in-progress when he'd started trying to move the portrait to see where he was, but getting a position which would put his class one floor above his own office and two floors below the teachers' living quarters had changed his opinion immediately.

Two years of exploring the corridor as a visitor and three years spent living in it had made it a home for him, far more so than the little house in Hogsmeade he spent summers in, which was solely his. Today, he had to bid it goodbye for good and this was the reason keeping him in bed so long. Tomorrow, he may not actually have a bed to sleep in. He and Dobby were taking their hippogriff friend, Buckbeak, and leaving their beloved Hogwarts behind. Thinking this while in his cherished home was enough to make him want to wave his arms about and yell but not enough for him to want to stay or change their plans. In two hours Dobby would be waiting for him in the woods beside the road to Hogsmeade and he would meet him, no matter what they were turning their backs on.

Remembering he had a time limit on how long he could louse about prompted him to open his eyes and, laying on his side facing his dark wood nightstand, a shimmer of white motion swam into view. A sleepy smile graced his face as he thought that this was something he could take with him. He reached over backwards, to his other nightstand, which was safe to fumble on, and found his glasses. Putting them on the pretty blur became a frosted glass stag, six inches in height and busy as usual; right then it was pretending to graze. Harry stretched his arms up above his head and slowly climbed out of bed. Reluctance was excusable but the night before he'd been busy discreetly saying goodbye to his colleagues without actually telling them he was leaving, exhausting and time-consuming work which had put him off of finishing packing. There wasn't too much to do, he was only taking a backpack's worth of things from his room, but his morning ablutions would take about forty minutes, it was a twenty minute walk to his meeting spot with Dobby and there was always the possibility of interruptions from students or fellow teachers. Punctuality wasn't dire but the house elf certainly deserved that much respect, as much as he was helping Harry.

Harry left his sleeping alcove, went down three steps on the left and then circled around into the small living space which completed his bedroom. It fit a loveseat upholstered in gold crushed velvet, a plush deep scarlet arm chair, an oak rocking chair, an empty gold-plated owl cage and stand, a tall and slim oak bookcase and a solid oak side table, all surrounding a blue and gold area rug. Ignoring the voice chorusing 'home,' he went to the brown faux suede backpack on his couch and obsessively checked that what he thought was there was, in fact, there. The three-volume set of defense books Sirius and Remus had given him for Christmas when he was fifteen lay flat against the bottom, his two favorite Weasley sweaters were on top of them and between the sweaters were two picture frames, containing the only pictures he felt he could safely take with him, one of Hedwig and another of Dobby. He felt the back of the inside of the bag, which did, inexplicably, still contain the two books he'd put in the inside pocket the day before, Moste Potente Potions and a soothed copy of The Monster Book of Monsters, which was restrained with a belt, just in case. Possibly having the latter pre-packed was the source of his worry. This left the bag half-full.

He shuffled in place a moment, then whipped around in the manner of someone about to get something done, walked seven paces to his rocking chair, which he would not see tomorrow, and picked up the folded bundle of his day's clothes. Everything he was going to wear after he left had been carefully thought out but this, the attire he'd have for both locations, was something he'd been especially careful about. It had to be appropriate for all his needs that day, an in-between and Harry had become quite familiar with those. He turned to leave and his eyes flicked over to the side table. Feeling what he and Dobby had come to call Packer's Anxiety, he held his clothes in one arm and took four quick steps to the side table, snatched up the wooden flute Hagrid had made for him for Christmas his first year at Hogwarts and grabbed a long-bodied, plush toy wolf by the neck. After carefully placing both in the bag on the sofa and looking at them for a moment as though he expected them to jump back out, he hurried out of his room and across the hall to the bathroom. Of course, he'd have to check the bag to make sure they were still there as soon as he got out.

The decision to pitch-all and run, as Hermione described it, was not an easy one for a Gryffindor to make. First, he had needed to convince himself that it wasn't blind fleeing, as Neville had put it. Then he'd had to find the reason he really was doing it, after everything he'd learned. Technically this wouldn't save or even help anyone he knew, it could only benefit people who were very much like them. Individuals belonging to an entirely different world which was running with the same set-up as their own, only slightly less developed. For example, there would still be a Hogwarts but instead it might have been named Pigzit; they would have an Albus Dumbledore, something Harry still sorely missed, but theirs might prefer taffy over lemon drops. They wouldn't know him and technically never would meet him as a child, he might not even be born in their world, or if he was, perhaps he'd be good at chess and thus cease to be himself.

The picture of what would happen was convoluted and rather confusing even to Harry. He'd spent years studying time travel obsessively, only to find that what he wanted was quite impossible. He couldn't go back as far as he wanted to and still mesh with the timeline he'd be jumping from, but what he could do was mesh with a different reality's timeline, a world which was following in his one's steps near-perfectly. He had the tools, painstakingly constructed, and he'd done his research. Everyone was half-expecting him to pull some crazy time-turner stunt one day, as he'd made no secret of his research and anyone who knew him realized he'd like to go back and fix it all. Most people thought of his mania as being centered around the prelude to the war, in which he lost his godfather and his mentor, the war itself, in which everyone lost far too much and the aftermath, which had been anything but rejoiceful for the Boy Who Lived and had been the final straw which prompted him to throw himself into what had seemed like an impossible quest.

Luna knew the whole truth, he'd told her because she'd been the only one who hadn't treated him as though he were demented after finding out he held such great interest in time travel. Initially Hermione had humored him and aided in his research, believing he would give up and accept the facts before they ever found anything useful but after nearly four months of him being perfectly serious on the matter she'd gotten too frustrated to continue, started a screaming match with him and left Scotland two weeks later. Luna had been genuinely accepting and displayed no small amount of curiosity in his findings. After discovering the impossibility of his initial quest, he had worked out a better plan than the original and gone to her with it. She had smiled broadly and called him as idealistic as a one-eyed snorkyhoobler and reckless as a niffler in London. He didn't know quite what a snorkyhoobler was and he'd never seen a niffler in London but she had positively glowed with pleasure, so he'd taken it as a compliment or something close to it. He figured she'd said it was stupid and she approved, which was more than enough for him.

Finishing his shower, Harry stepped out and did his best to not look at the luxuriant bathing pool (it was far too large to call a bathtub) he was leaving behind. If he'd gotten in that instead of the over-sized marble shower, he most certainly could not have climbed out before noon of next Wednesday. He brushed his teeth, shaved, cast a drying charm on his hair and dressed. He'd chosen a grey chenille turtleneck sweater, nice but nondistinct, red vinyl pants, in a 'retro' style cut which had come back into fashion with a vengeance, a red wool robe, worn unfastened and in a style of casual daywear which had been common for sixty years and black dragonhide boots, in a traditional cut, with the tops tucked under his pant-legs. He was time-safe, not presenting anything too unusual to a 1973 magical crowd but also showing his normal taste of attractive practicality to anyone who saw him between the bathroom door and Dobby. His sturdy backpack would only complete the picture of both Professor Potter going into town and young wanderer.

Turning away from the mirror he walked to the counter which stood between the entrance to the bath and his laundry hamper. Though he'd tossed his pajamas in the hamper for the elves, not knowing what would happen to the things he left behind once he was gone but not wanting to leave dirty laundry, either, the scarf he often wore to bed was sitting upon the counter where he'd set it aside while undressing before his shower. It was a silver scarf, given to him by Luna, woven of what was supposedly slipjibber silk which she said warded off nightmares. He'd never found any evidence of the existence of 'slipjibbers,' beyond Luna saying they did, but for some reason the scarf worked, except in warding off strange nightmares like ones about being chased by giant blocks of cheese or marrying Hermione. Picking up the fine material, he ran it through his hands as he walked to the door.

Entering the hall, he paused and gave a little wave of goodbye to the best bathing room he'd ever seen as he closed the door. He was even with the third floor in this part of the corridor; the only other doors on the level went to his bedroom and the defense classroom. Turning right, he went down the short hallway which ended in a right angle, leading to a stone staircase that went to the fourth floor. The section of Ravenclaw's corridor at the top of the stairs also had three doors, though one was hidden within an alcove at the end of the hall. Harry went straight to the first door, which opened to a storage closet, and he set the scarf down on a shelf before picking up his Firebolt. Leaving his broom behind, the one Sirius had gotten him, was a crushing necessity. His only consolation was that he'd be working to save another Sirius Black from going to Azkaban and later getting killed.

He removed his clip-on broomstick compass, which Ron had given him on the Christmas of their fifth year at Hogwarts, and gave the broom handle a few loving strokes before setting it down. He'd already said a proper goodbye to it the weekend before, when he'd ridden it for hours in pursuit of a snitch on Saturday and then on Sunday, when he'd flown purely for pleasure, savoring every rush of speed he'd be giving up for the next thirty years, or possibly forever if the Firebolt was never developed in the other world or he was killed or disabled before then. Minerva had been thrilled, seeing him getting out for fresh air and exercise. Sybill Trelawney, as they'd been drinking an evening brandy in her tower, had told him she sensed it meant he was preparing to do something foolish. Ten points to Sybill for an accurate prediction.

Setting the compass beside the scarf he picked up a small, latched wooden box containing a trick snitch from Fred and George and grabbed a pair of soft red mittens off another shelf; they'd been a gift from Minerva and each featured a tiny golden snitch which raced along the material. Piling the scarf and compass on top of them, he stepped back with the bundle and closed the door. Looking down the hall and then down the stairs, he went back to his room and carefully deposited his things on the loveseat, beside his bag, then rushed back out into the hall and up the stairs again.

The two remaining doors were on the opposite wall of the first. Harry walked by the second and went through the archway of the alcove leading to the third. The antechamber contained four straight-backed darkwood chairs at one end and a cleared desk with a slightly grander matching chair at the other. Beside the desk was the door to Harry's personal office. He privately thought that a former Ravenclaw teacher, though certainly not Rowena herself, had used the alcove as a publicly accessible office while disciplining students. At least that was the impression he'd gotten when he'd found a small number of canes and whips inside the more personalized office beyond the door. He hadn't felt it right to just toss those, since things left in Ravenclaw's corridors by former residents were meant to become the property of future residents, but he had hidden them all on the floor at the back of the storage closet down the hall.

Entering the teacher's office he'd come to think of as only his, he wondered what the next resident would think of it, assuming there ever was one. He'd made it a cheery eyesore, keeping the plush blue rug but turning the wallpaper red, with gold stripes. The three cherry wood bookshelves centered on the left and right walls were flanked by matching stands which held a variety of devices and baubles, ranging from a counter-top foe glass to the model Firebolt Tonks had given him for Christmas in his fifth year. His walls were covered in framed wizarding photos of nature scenes, such as the Giant Squid lounging in the shallows of the lake and Ron's owl Pig somewhat successfully dodging snowflakes in his usual frantic darting flight pattern. He hoped whoever came along next wouldn't shove everything in the back of the closet with the canes and whips.

The stand on the left of the bookcases on the left wall of the office had a small gold pillow, cradling the Remembrall Minerva had given him the first Christmas after he started teaching. The stand on the right of the same bookcases had a round, red velvet pillow reminiscent of the pouffes in the Divination classroom, which cushioned a crystal ball that was about the same size as the Remembrall. Sybill had gifted him with it on his twenty-first birthday, handing him a little wrapped box and saying, "Congratulations, I've lost a few bets," and the humorous acknowledgement of her penchant for predicting his death had opened the door to his current friendship with the odd woman. Long discussions of his death omens and the hidden accuracy in 'false' predictions were the reason behind the tea cup and saucer on his desk.

They'd been drinking tea, trying to sober up for classes and he'd recognized it as the same tea cup Trelawney had seen the Grim in during his first class with her in third year, which he then told her had probably been a symbol for the return of his godfather, Sirius. She had taken his remembrance of the cup's traits and its use in accurately divining such a significant personal event in his life as a sign that he was attuned to it and meant to have it. Sybill had insisted he take the cup and its saucer with him when he left the tower and had him promise her he'd use it to read tea leaves at least once a month, to 'keep it seasoned.' Her manner had brought to mind Hagrid packing Norbert up for Romania. Their still slightly-intoxicated states may have been responsible for the exchange but the day after they both felt they were even and refrained from mentioning it, though she'd sometimes remind him of the promise and ask if he was keeping it.

The next heir of Ravenclaw to enter his office would be inheriting two unburdened pillows and an eyesore of an empty space on the corner of his busy desk. The crystal ball in the tea cup, the cup on the saucer and the Remembrall cradled in the crook of his arm, Harry closed the door on one more part of his home, refraining from waving as he had done to the bathroom. He returned to the loveseat in his room and gently settled the glassware onto the cushion. Looking at what was waiting to be packed, he stuffed the crystal ball into one red mitten and the Remembrall into the other then settled both into the bag, next to the toy wolf. On impulse he reached down to the bottom of the bag and felt the bindings of the defense books from Remus and Sirius; all three of them were still there and he hoped this latest confirmation would ease his Packer's Anxiety. He was sure Dobby wasn't having as much trouble with his own little knapsack.

This left the scarf, snitch box, broomstick compass and tea cup and saucer on his little gold sofa. He stood still looking at them a moment and then made the circular trip to his sleeping alcove and went to the nightstand on the right of his bed which displayed a small number of glass items, surrounding a bronze filigree lamp; his frosted glass stag had the most room to itself, as it would often 'explore' up to a square foot of space. Beside an unanimated crystal statuette of Merlin was the pocket sneakoscope Ron had given him for his twelfth birthday, which resembled a glass top. It would sometimes spin and whistle when the stag investigated its neighbors too closely. He picked it up, took it around to the sofa and wrapped it in the scarf Luna had given him, then set it down in the bag, tucked under the stuffed wolf so that it was also cushioned by the sweater beneath it. A good deal of space in his backpack was going to be hogged by the Weasley sweaters he was taking but they could not have been left in Hogsmeade to be packed by Dobby without drawing suspicion, as he wore them too often, and they did make for good padding.

Going back to the alcove he went to his dressing armoire and took out a blue velvet dress robe, timesafe, which had been a gift from Hermione in the days they'd still been talking to one another. He laid it out on his bed and placed the stag, which cocked its head in his direction, in the center. He then folded it in half and quickly rolled it up before the figurine could escape. This bundle went into the bag as well, pressed against the back of the stuffed toy. He added the snitch box and compass to the growing number of what would appear to most as cushioned odds and ends. He smiled as he thought of what his younger self's response to this sort of packing would be. _"Well, that's just great Harry, you can use the wolf teddy to spy on Voldemort and later kill him with a ballerina music box melody. Are you mad? How about adding a flamethrower in there, Potter? Are you even taking your wand with you or are you going to show up on his doorstep with a pocket full of daisies?"_

He was, in fact, not able to take his wand as it was rather too distinct. If it came out that he owned a wand containing a core of Fawkes' feather, he could be found out as a future version of Harry Potter or be called out as a traitor who had stolen the feather. Things could go very horribly wrong, which meant he had two choices: use the spare wand he'd purchased years before or go to Ollivander's in the other world and get the wand which would otherwise be destined for their own Boy Who Lived. Either way, the holly and phoenix feather wand which bore the scars of fourteen years of his magic would be staying behind.

Fitting the tea cup and saucer between the mittens and wolf, he picked up the bag with both arms and carried it to his bed to finish up. According to the clock on the wall he had forty minutes until he had to meet Dobby. He removed two Weasley sweaters from an armoire drawer and tossed them over his shoulder and onto the bed; that made the total four. The next thing to fly was his invisibility cloak, followed by handfuls of boxers and socks. He then closed the drawers and doors and went to the nightstand on the left side of the bed, which held more practical things than the one on the right. His wand was on the top surface but he ignored this and opened the drawer beneath.

Over a month before, he had prepared the contents of this drawer. Three unbreakable crystal vials, holding what he felt he might need most, besides Dobby and his wits. A vial each of Felix Felicis, a special kind of water from the Betweens and a strong nutritional potion of his own design which he hoped could help sustain Dobby, Buckbeak and himself in an emergency, for up to two weeks. Beside the vials were two money bags meant to protect against such an emergency. The magic pouches were filled to full capacity, leaving him with six thousand galleons as insurance in the new world. The last item he was taking from inside the stand was a much-loved sheathed dagger, which he took a moment to secure in the inside of his right boot. The smaller-capacity money bag he normally went to Hogsmeade with was on the stand's top, next to his wand, and he took this and stuffed it securely into an inner robe pocket before tossing the other two magic bags from the drawer onto the bed, picking up the vials, shutting the drawer and turning to the great mess he'd made.

He spread his emerald green sweater over the top contents of the bag, leaving it quite full. The foremost front pocket on the backpack was then stuffed with socks and boxer shorts, the unbreakable vials leaving the pocket fatly stuffed as well. In the second pocket on the front, which went two thirds the length of the bag, he first packed his folded invisibility cloak, then added the fourth and final Weasley sweater, which was bright scarlet, and on top of this he placed the two money bags. Doing up the snaps of all three over-flaps, he took a deep breath and slid the straps over his shoulders. This was it; he resisted the desire to take it back off and double check the inventory, as he was at least reasonably sure the defense volumes, his four favorite sweaters and his nightmare-repelling scarf were all right where he'd left them. No need to check and no time, either, Packer's Anxiety be damned.

Harry gave the room a bittersweet smile and looked to his wand, which he was abandoning to who knew what fate. "Good wishes," he told it, and quickly left his room thinking that if he hadn't cried over leaving his broom behind then he certainly wouldn't do it over one of the greatest symbols to him of the war with Voldemort. In the corridor he turned right and hurried down the short hall, to turn left and go down the stairs to the second floor. The first door was on the left and he sped past it to the one centered in the wall on the right. Going straight into the little parlor he'd converted from an apprentice's bedroom, he picked up his last bit of luggage from the table, a very special pocket watch and an average deck of playing cards, and settled each on his person, the deck in an outer robe pocket. Looking up at the quirky enchanted window that presently displayed the night sky and full moon, he smirked and shrugged, going back out into the hallway and finally, walking by the final door of the corridor without more than a cursory glance, left his home through the portrait at the end of the second floor hall.

He tossed his usual careless, "Good morning, Madam," over his shoulder to the guardian portrait of Ravenclaw's corridor, who happened to be a beautiful pink flamingo. Whatever students saw this made no note of it, as it wasn't unusual to see their Defense Professor standing before the flamingo painting and holding brief, one-sided conversations. Something they'd all come to accept was that Professor Potter, though quite ravishing and very cool, was a bit mad. Since none of them had ever met Professor Dumbledore, some of them felt he was a wild man and speculated as to whether he'd be fired or committed first. He couldn't wait until the more conservative children of thirty years before met him.

He made it out the front doors without being stopped by anyone and once outdoors he pressed a kiss to the castle's archway, something he'd gotten in the habit of doing whenever he left the castle's protection five years ago. No one would think anything of it and only he and Hogwarts knew it was a kiss goodbye. He'd felt a rush of warmth and comfort come over him from the brief touch to the stonework and was able to walk away from her, his first and only real home, without doubts.

Dobby would be waiting thirty feet into the woods beside Buckbeak, guarding Harry's life's work. It had taken two years of research for him to be grounded enough to know what he wanted. Another three to plan and assemble the Blacksphere and between that, his uncountable years in the Betweens, questing after the most essential component of his plan. He had needed the sands of time and paid a high price to retrieve them.

When first starting his insane mission, he'd researched time-turners, discovering they worked because they were in fact filled with the sands of time, a magical element only found in the dream world. This was how a person could feel they've been living days or hours in their dreams - their minds were removed from the constraints of time for as long as they were in the dream world. So, in order to create a magical object which would move him through time, he needed to get the bloody sand first. There had been record of people going into the between world, which existed both of the real and imagined, and the reports of such incidences ended in the person either never returning, going mad or waltzing into the Department of Mysteries with a fresh supply of extremely rare magical substances. Unspeakables were the subjects of these last accounts, the providers of the sand in all those time-turners at the Ministry Harry remembered smashing in his fifth year.

So he went to the Unspeakables. Well, he tried to anyway and after he'd been attempting to catch one for a year and a half, they'd either felt sorry for him or been annoyed enough by his presence to approach him from behind, knock him out and kidnap him and then wake him up in a poorly-lit concrete room and ask what his problem was. Very nice of them, really. He told them of his intentions to enter the realm between worlds real and imagined and claimed it was to retrieve water from the pool of tranquil dreams, which would ensure a good night's sleep for years. Knowing he was a former fighter in the war and that if the Boy Who Lived disappeared or went mad there would be more than a little trouble in the wizarding world, they offered to get some for him. Of course, he refused and told them he would not be dependent upon someone else securing his state of mind every few years for the rest of his life. They eventually agreed and taught him all he needed to know in order to manage. Luckily he'd already mastered occlumency, learned from a desperate combination of Snape's head-splitting lessons, Dumbledore's portrait's advice and books Hermione had thrown at him with a vengeance.

After completing his training, which mostly consisted of mastering his emotions and learning to operate sufficiently while under duress, he was given the Draught of Living Death and placed under the charm which would guide and hold him in the dimension of their world which shifted between dreamful imaginings and corporeal horrors, a land of wakeful death which he had come to think of simply as the Betweens, a place he'd eventually come to understand better than he would have liked. He'd spent over two months in the Betweens, as counted in the Waking World. In the Dream World it was an eternity and in the Betweens immeasurable but some compromise between the two, as in everything else there. Somewhere between two months and eternity, to retrieve an adequate supply of sand and water, having needed the water he'd told the Unspeakables he was going in to retrieve in order to cover for having withdrawn the highly contraband materials needed to manipulate time. The Tri-Wizard Tournament seemed like a pick-up game of Quidditch by the time he woke up, clutching his vials of water and only relaxing when he felt the weight in his coat of the two money bags filled with sand.

It was lucky he'd decided to take so much and have the room to experiment when he got home or else he never would have bought something as ridiculous as a money bag that could hold up to three thousand galleons, never mind buying two. At twenty-one, Harry had never made a purchase exceeding three hundred galleons and could not think of a reason to ever do so. He'd not known how a wizard could spend one thousand galleons on a shopping excursion and things like houses or brooms - well, who paid for them in coins? That's what Gringotts was there for! Being somewhat known in Diagon Alley as a low-key shopper, he'd gotten quite a look when he'd walked into Hausman's Magical Practicalities and asked for two of their second-largest, most durable coin bags, particularly when he specified that he wanted magic bags, not enchanted ones which only had enlargement charms on them. The ones he'd walked out with were temporal distortion safe, having been woven from the start as magical objects which were simply self-containing, instead of having been merely mugglish bags that were tampered with to make them behave like magic ones. The risk of an enlargement charm reverting during his trip into the Betweens had been too great - it was worth the galleons spent, to know he wouldn't wake up in the Department of Mysteries covered in sand or be unable to bring enough back with him to do more than go back a few years.

If Harry Potter wanting six thousand galleons on hand three years before raised eyebrows, it would have sent up fireworks now. He loved his remaining friends, of course, but some of them had become quite a pain. The offer of defense professor over three years before, just a month after his secret journey to the Betweens, had been Minerva's way of ensuring she could keep an eye on his health and safety. It was appreciated but the ensuing years of constant speculation over what he was doing and what his true state of mind and health were was sometimes rather grueling. If he didn't love Hogwarts and genuinely want to teach there, his ex-professor's constant concern likely would have driven him out after the first year. It had probably been the sight of his exhaustion and overly-alert mindset which had prompted her offer, not knowing of the trials he'd faced while living in the Betweens and thinking he'd been doing God could only guess what to himself in the months between his visits at Hogwarts.

She was a good friend and a loyal advocate; tomorrow she'd be getting a letter telling her so. The crucialty of his goodbye letters arriving after he was well and truly gone but before panic set in had kept him from simply employing the Owl Post services; the Boy Who Lived wanting so many time-specified deliveries would no doubt be talked about in Hogsmeade and the risk of it reaching Hogwarts or, Merlin forbid, Neville and the Weasleys, was too great a chance to take. They all suspected he'd try to mess about with their timeline one day or another and as such had kept their eyes on him, questioning any behavior they considered a warning sign. He had no doubt Hermione had owled them all a list of things to watch out for, as now he could hardly visit his own house in Hogsmeade without someone showing up to baby-sit him and ask just what business he was about.

In the interests of his mission's security, he had charged a kitchen House Elf named Midgy, whom Dobby claimed to trust implicitly, with delivering his letters to Professor Minerva McGonagall, Professor Sybill Trelawney, Mrs. Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Fleur Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood and Draco Malfoy. The rest of the world could go hang but the last of his friends and family deserved something more than whatever rot the Daily Prophet would print about the Boy Who Lived going missing. He was sure that after Minerva got over the shock of having lost one of her favorite former students, she'd make tactful and discreet announcements to first their fellow staff members and then the student populace. His other colleagues were good acquaintances of his and likable enough but he didn't feel he owed any of them a personal explanation or farewell. He had favorite students he'd miss, including some cheeky fourth year Slytherins who reminded him more of the Marauders than the Junior Death Eaters he'd gone to school with, but his missive to the Headmistress also included a brief letter of address to the student body which he'd asked her to read during her announcement.

Aside from his personal letters, his account manager at Gringotts, whom he had developed quite an appreciation for, would be alerting certain parties by the end of the week that, according to the terms of his living will, they were due at Gringotts for the reading of his last will and testament and the distribution of his bequeathments to them. There was a great deal of gold in his vault that he and Dobby just wouldn't be able to carry with them without risking suspicion as to who they were and where they had gotten their funds from but the remaining Weasleys, Neville and Sybill could use it well. He wasn't leaving an heir behind, so all things Potter needed a home as well. It had taken him a few months to be sure of just what he wanted done with everything and for everyone, that leaving the Firebolt behind in Ravenclaw's corridor for some future Ravenclaw heir to fly with and giving Grimmauld Place to Draco, donating a year's supply of doughnuts to the Ministry's Auror division and leaving Hermione with a large line of credit at a House Elf Relocation auction house, had all been the proper things to do. There were a dozen other similar bequeathments, some genuine and others his last laugh in his home world.

Coming upon the bend in the road which would ensure he was out of view of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade when he ducked into the forest, he recalled Dobby's preparations, which had all been very simple as the House Elf was far more concerned with his friend the great wizard Harry Potter's comfort and future well-being. The elf's devotion was still a bit frightening at times but it had also made him the perfect accomplice, someone Harry knew he could count on to keep quiet about his secrets and be effective in helping him manage in the new world. They'd picked this day the previous spring and had spent the summer in their Hogsmeade home planning preparations, deciding what stayed and went. He remembered that his elf friend's greatest issue in leaving their dimension was that nearly all of their photos and portraits would have to stay behind. No discernable images of their human friends and no pictures depicting Harry before his scar had faded could follow them into the sensitive situation they would be creating. Having developed a strong taste for photography and honed a more respectable skill in art than the childish rendition of Harry he'd drawn ten years before would suggest was possible, Dobby had found this condition to be as tearing as leaving behind Ravenclaw's corridor was for Harry. He'd bet a thousand galleons, which he happened to have on him, that the elf's little knapsack had at least one portrait off the walls of their home, timesafe or not.

He walked into the woods, freshly fallen leaves crinkling beneath his boots, and made his way into the small clearing they'd agreed upon. He heard the soft rustling of Buckbeak's wings before seeing the pair, when they were in view he smiled in satisfaction; Dobby was standing on his toes beside the hippogriff, patiently stroking the animal's side as Buckbeak shifted restlessly. A few feet away, the Blacksphere sat on the ground, an orb of transparent black glass holding seven pounds of sand and framed and supported by rounded gold inscribed with runic symbols. An enchanted spherical titanium wire cage comprised of six bars sat within the stand's outer frame but outside the globe's own supporting, pivotal frame and when he activated the device, the wires would spin at an unnatural speed, rotating and powering the globe. It stood only three feet tall and two and a half feet wide but for the next few minutes, it meant the entire world to Harry, quite literally.

"Dobby, do you have the portkey?"

"Yes Harry Potter, Dobby is not forgetting something so important."

Harry smiled slightly at the minor expression of rebuke on the elf's face. "I know you wouldn't, Dobby, it's just the PA again."

The elf sighed at this and nodded gravely, though an answering smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Dobby is understanding, Harry Potter, he is having had Packer's Anxiety since you is leaving to Hogwarts. This morning Dobby was not knowing if he was having packed all his socks or not and he was almost leaving his favorite sweater behind!"

Indeed, there were bits of clothes sticking out of the knapsack strapped to the elf's back, the half-hanging out rainbow sock and purple and green polka dot hat suiting Harry's mental image of Dobby perfectly. Looking at his friend, he saw that the elf had followed their plan and dressed 'discreetly' after reaching the woods, as he was wearing only one hat, only three pairs of socks and a plain maroon jumper that had been one of Ron's discards years before. The blue child-sized backpack, covered in pre-approved timesafe buttons of famous pieces of art, certainly finished the picture. Dobby was a free elf and they wouldn't be hiding that but his normal presentation of himself could imply he was a wild radicalist, classless or even a house elf on acid, none of which would be conducive to their mission. He'd accepted the minor conditions on his wardrobe in stride, knowing wizards thought strangely when it came to such things. Harry was just glad he'd toned it down and gotten rid of the bright pink children's school bag that had neon green zippers; they'd be enough like a traveling circus as it was, without actually begging for crowds of strangers to stare.

"Are you sure you're ready now?" He looked straight into the large tennis ball eyes of his most-needed ally; if Dobby had doubts he could wait or go on his own after regrouping.

But Dobby squared his shoulders and returned the look with a bold edge about him. "Dobby is following Harry Potter wherever he is going, and is always ready to serve Harry Potter." Then the elf abruptly lost his serious attitude. "And besides," he continued in a rush, "Dobby is looking forward to seeing a little Harry Potter again, you was very cute when you was small, and Harry Potter's owl will be alive again, and Hedwig was always willing to sit still so Dobby could be drawing her, and the Wheezies will all be there, and we is to be helping people and - AND Dobby is to be meeting Harry Potter's parents!" At the end of this speech, he looked overjoyed and ready to cry.

"Yeah, well...you know we won't be seeing me or Hedwig for a long time though, Dobby. You never know, something might even go wrong and-"

He was interrupted by an indignant sniff. "Dobby is not listening to Harry Potter saying he is not being born, Dobby is going to take care of as many Harry Potters as there is to be being, and seeing that they be is part of Dobby doing that. We is being ready?"

Used to the elf's stance on the issue, Harry looked about for the satchel of clothes Dobby was supposed to bring for him from Hogsmeade and saw it on the ground a bit away from Buckbeak. Slipping the shoulder strap over his head so that he was wearing both it and his backpack, he then carried the Blacksphere over to the rest of his trio and set it down on the ground before them, keeping one hand on the top. He looked Buckbeak in the eyes and thought the hippogriff seemed a bit impatient and bored with them. Hopefully the surprises coming wouldn't scare him too much. "Whenever you're both ready," he said while smiling at Buckbeak and got a snort from him and nod from Dobby in response. The elf took out the portkey, a bent up spoon, and held it out so that the end of it was resting flat against Buckbeak's side. Harry reached out, keeping his left hand in a firm grip on the Blacksphere, and when he touched the middle he spoke the password he'd set to activate it, "Never enough socks."

The three creatures were pulled through the portkey and whirled to their destination, where Buckbeak made a perfect landing, looking rather pleased, Dobby landed mid-tumble and in the interests of his personal luggage strapped to his back, turned the start of a momentum driven somersault into a cartwheel, from which he came down upon his feet with a minimum of stumbling and Harry outright fell on his face, slamming down flat on the ground and getting the wind knocked out of him by the satchel which had slid around to his front during the trip.

"Harry Potter, sir! Is you alright?" Dobby rushed to his side as the wizard wheezed and nodded. The elf looked to the Blacksphere Harry was still clutching. "Our little black globe is fine too, just look, it's glowing!"

"That's," Harry rasped before taking a deep breath, "because of the portkey trip. I told you the distortional travel wouldn't harm it and might even excite its magic a bit." He huffed once and then grinned at Dobby, who was switching between giving a reproachful look at his friend and eyeing their little time machine with a light of awe. He settled on Harry, of course. "You is needing to be more careful! What if Harry Potter is getting hurt out here? What if you is landing on your back and your things is breaking or the beastie book is waking up and eats through Harry Potter's bag and attacks Harry Potter?"

"I'm sure you'd save me," he said carelessly and rose to go stroke Buckbeak's mane of feathers. "We're going to be making another trip like that one, Beaky, and I'm not sure how it will go in practice. In theory, we're going to be phased through the Betweens, which is painless but disturbing, while projecting ourselves out of this world and being drawn into the next, which may result in an awful wizard, hippogriff and elf pancake when we land but should most likely end in the Blacksphere's charms slowing us down as much as possible and eventually cushioning our landing. Then it may seem like we haven't gone anywhere but up and back down to the same spot, but we'll be in a whole different world, Beaky, one that has Hagrid in it." Buckbeak stamped his front hooves against the ground and gave Harry a look as though he had just been promised a big fat ferret for breakfast. "That's right and though he'll be younger and smaller than you remember him, Sirius will be there too." A loud, rough trill sounded from the large animal and Harry smiled widely. There were plenty of practical reasons to take the hippogriff with them, not the least of which being convenient transport and protection of better quality than any guard dog could offer, but primarily Harry felt that after the loss of the two humans who had been most-involved in Buckbeak's life, and the depression his animal friend had suffered after losing Hagrid, it would be an act of cruelty to leave him abandoned by his third caretaker as well.

"We is to be smacked, disturbed, pulled and then land back in courtyard, yes?"

Harry turned to Dobby with a weak smile at the summary. "Yes." The whole thing would be quite a show for anyone they were within view of which was why he'd chosen to portkey out to the courtyard of a long-abandoned wizarding castle on the Isle of Drear. It was under numerous protection charms with no muggle or wizard neighbors and was also quite a wreck. He'd cleared the courtyard of all rodents, reptiles and hindering vegetation during the summer and Dobby had kept it up since.

"Right." Dobby nodded to himself. "Let's go then, Harry Potter." The elf walked over to Buckbeak and bowed to him, the hippogriff in turn lowering himself enough for Dobby to climb onto his back. Harry withdrew his spare wand from his robe pocket, ebony with dragon heartstring, twelve inches, swishy and previously used mostly in emergencies. He bowed to Buckbeak as well, maintaining eye contact, and received a bow in return followed by a lesser lowering of his shoulders than what he'd afforded Dobby. Harry climbed on gratefully, settling behind the house elf and then levitating the Blacksphere and guiding it to them. It only weighed fourteen pounds but was of an impractical size to outright hold, especially while sitting on a hippogriff.

Hovering it in front of himself and above Dobby's head, he reached into the hollow in the base and withdrew three chains, attaching to the Blacksphere, one ending in a bridle and two others in loops of adjustable sizes. He stroked Buckbeak's feathers and with his permission, gently affixed the feather light bridle chain. The adjustable loops went about Harry and Dobby's waists and then Harry touched his wand to the base of the Blacksphere and spoke the incantation to activate it. It powered up quickly, the bars and globe spinning into a dark silver blur, the sand glowing brightly from within the black glass globe and the steady blue illumination of the runes carved into the gold outer frame and base slightly touched by the white-grey glare of the sand.

The chains connecting them all to the magical activity began sparking slightly, though not enough to do more than startle them, and then in a bright flash of grey light tinged blue which came upon them too suddenly to anticipate, they were gone from the waking world and in the Betweens. By the time this change had registered their incorporeal forms had already entered the route suggested to the dream world by the magic in the runic symbols and were going through illuminated tunnels of grey, feeling a complete loss of their comprehension of direction, distance, shapes and space. It was really the most disorienting and nauseating experience any of them had ever had and while in the waking world's time the trip would only take an instant longer than apparition, in the Betweens it seemed to last hours and left Harry fearing he'd made a terrible mistake and they would be trapped in the dizzying spiral until they died. Then, they became aware of something beyond the swirl of greys and each other's presences; the sense of 'down' slowly came over them, sloughing off the hellish trance. Soon they regained their minds fully and realized they were plummeting, Buckbeak was aimed head first towards the ground they couldn't see, however far away it was, and they were diving through the air, drawn by an invisible force, at a rapidly increasing speed. Their velocity increased, surpassing Harry's Firebolt and finally climbing to a level that made him very glad none of them could feel wind pressure in the Between state the Blacksphere had placed them all in.

Eventually the endless grey became choking blue and they gradually slowed to a speed he thought was probably reachable on a Nimbus 2001, something more than tolerable for a Firebolt owner. Buckbeak was still poised to be flying down, likely following the air currents, natural and otherwise, to avoid injury to his wings. By the time they reached clouds, textile sensation was beginning to return and Harry could feel the cold wind against his face. Soon enough, they were slowing to the point that Buckbeak could straighten them out fifteen feet above the ground and spread his wings wide, carefully maneuvering a gentle landing for them, up to the point he contacted the cushioning charms on the ground which Harry had mentioned before, which caused him to lose his balance and stumble so that he was laying on a dissipating pillow of air. The hippogriff turned its head to glare at Harry and the shaken wizard couldn't manage more than a queasy attempt at a smile before collapsing to the side and laying down against the ground too. Dobby was slumped over Buckbeak's feathery mane and was quietly panting, too drained to even ask if his wizard was alright and the three of them fell asleep this way, completely exhausted by their interdimensional journey.


	2. The Hog's Head

Dragon Effect

Story Summary: Harry has lived with an obsessive mania revolving around 'what-ifs' and 'could haves.' This has lead him to eventually apply his theories to real life and risk a journey to a younger Earth which seems to have evolved in his world's footsteps. At twenty-five, he arrives in his new world's year of 1973, where he intends to make waves in a very calculated fashion. He seeks out familiar people with the aim of forming bonds that will literally change the world.

Disclaimer: I get nothing out of writing this story except my own enjoyment and no infringement on the series' creator, publishers or distributors rights is intended. J. K. Rowling owns the game, I'm only playing. Speaking of, have you seen those neat Harry Potter plushies yet? Cute!

Ramblings: Put away the map, I know where I'm going! It will only be confuzzling a short while longer. Assuming it is confuzzling, which I have to, since thus far no one has reviewed. Which I swear makes me only a _little_ disappointed, since one person has at least indirectly called this story 'worthwhile' by adding it to their C2 group, which is named 'Worthwhile HP Stories I've Collected.' I jumped around a bit when I saw that.

Actual Story Notes: There are reasons for the seemingly out of character behavior of both Harry and Dobby, from Harry's unusual openness and inexpert cover to Dobby's...well, you'll see if you read. Anyway, what I'm more concerned with for this chapter is telling you that I don't like OCs, just as a general rule, the only trouble is that Hogsmeade is a village and we have yet to have been introduced to a village full of canon characters. Point being: Right now they aren't important, they're just there. The only other thing worth noting is a reminder that this is not DH compliant and that most of this chapter was put together long before the release of the seventh book.

WARNINGS: This chapter contains a potted African Violet, which may disturb readers who are afraid of house plants. Also, there's colorful sludge which moves. _Oooooh! It's coming to get you!_ I can't really think of anything else. Alchohol and bloodstains? Wait, yes, those would probably be it. Silly me.

Chapter 2: The Hog's Head

Harry could feel something tickling the skin on his face, across his nose and forehead. When he opened his eyes, he saw orange-brown spines moving directly beneath his eyes and sprung up from the ground with a shout. This startled Dobby awake and the elf seemed to bounce up from his perch on Buckbeak, floppy ears perking to stand at full height. He watched with wide tennis-ball eyes as his wizard brushed squiggly bugs from his face and hair.

"Is Harry Potter alright? Is he wanting Dobby to help?"

"No, it's - there aren't anymore, are there?"

Dobby crept forward and began alternately plucking and brushing centipedes, crickets, beetles and one grasshopper from his wizard's hair and robes. Harry looked at the elf and quirked an eyebrow, before beginning to return the favor. In spite of their preparation, they were going to enter the alternate wizarding world looking like tramps. _Though, that was part of the plan...I just thought we could be clean, classy tramps._ "We should make sure they aren't bothering Buckbeak, too." As he said this, the hippogriff rose from the ground and flapped his wings hard and fast, shaking off any pests and flinging half of them onto Harry and Dobby. "Well, I guess he's alright then." The creature gave him a smug look and began preening himself.

"We is not losing anything?"

He looked around. The gold chains which had held them together during the journey had disappeared, as had the Blacksphere. "Damn, we must have lost the Blacksphere to the Betweens."

"We is having all our toes, is we not?" The elf asked pragmatically.

Harry wiggled his toes experimentally in his dragonhide boots. "I think I've got all of mine," he told his friend with a grin.

"And Dobby has all of his," he paused to look behind himself at the hippogriff, "And Beaky is having his front talons and back hooves, all in tact! We is doing very well, Harry Potter," he finished, turning back to Harry with a smile.

"Yes, I think we've come out better than a pancake. You've got your bag, I've got both of mine and we're all alive and not squished. We should get butterbeers." Buckbeak let out a squawk. "And ferrets. We should get to the inn, in Hogsmeade, so you can get a break from us, huh? A nice warm stable until tomorrow morning?" He stood and stroked Buckbeak, feeling very grateful all three of them had made it through the transition safely. "Are you up to getting us there? Tomorrow I'll pick up a broom and you'll be done hauling us around, I promise." At a head shake and hoof stomp he added, "Unless you want to give us a ride. And we'd be flying side by side a lot of the time anyway." Buckbeak trilled and backed up and Harry smiled and maintained eye contact as he bowed and the animal bowed back. Dobby added in his own bow and Buckbeak bent his head slightly in acknowledgement, maintaining his already lowered posture so that both beings could climb up on his back.

They flew at an easy pace, about an hour and a half's flight to the edge of Hogsmeade and by the time they landed all three were feeling relaxed and refreshed. Harry laid a hand against Buckbeak's side as the two walked into the village, Dobby still straddling the hippogriff. Looking at a wizard and picking out the time period their robes belonged to was not an easy task, unless you were guessing to the closest century. Fortunately, Harry had spent no small amount of time ensuring the styles of all the clothing he'd taken with him were appropriate for what one could expect to see on a wizard in seventy-three. Being familiar with the mundane intricacies of wizard wear, it didn't take him long to feel assured they were in the correct place. The few wealthy witches in the street, who were eyeing him with both suspicion and interest, were dressed in what would have been modern in their target year. Unfashionable or poor persons had clothing from a span of over two centuries before seventy-three. _I've spent too much time with Draco, to be deciding everyone's classes so quickly. I'm horrified, he'd be proud._

Harry ducked his head shyly, glad that timidity was part of his cover's personality. He was a highly sheltered, newly nomadic wizard who had no remaining ties in the wizarding world. Keeping the carefully constructed cover story in mind, he approached a young matron with a sincere smile and asked, "Excuse me, Madame, do you know where I could find a room and stable for the night?"

The plain woman adjusted the babe in her arms and eyed him up and down suspiciously. "Yes, depending on what business you've got here."

"Just passing through, probably. I might stay a couple weeks," he paused and injected a tourist's enthusiasm into his words, "I've heard this is the only all-magical community left in the wizarding public. I just wanted to see what it was like, how freely people still use - um," he ducked his head at her confused stare and murmured quietly, "just looking, Madame. That's my business." Raising his head he asked, "So, do you know where I could get a room and stable or should I be on better business to be privy to that knowledge?"

"No, I'm sorry," at his disappointed look she hurriedly added, "I mean, yes, I know, and I'm sorry for being rude. The Hog's Head will give you a room and a place for your - animal."

"Hippogriff, Madame. His name's Buckbeak," he told her in a helpful, innocent tone.

"Er, yes, hello Buckbeak," she hesitantly bowed her head at the beast, as though half-remembering what she ought to do. "There's also The Guard's Rail but they mostly only serve Aurors or Ministry workers." Looking him up and down again with sudden coolness, she asked in a sniffy voice worthy of a Malfoy, "Are you foreign?"

He nearly rolled his eyes but reined it in, he supposed his accent could be fake and he needed to be remembered by Hogsmeade citizens in a certain way. "I...no. No, I don't think so. I'm not sure. This is Scotland?"

"Of course it is," she said snippily. The other child, a blonde-headed toddler, was pulling on the mother's shabby skirt and she apparently was no longer in the mood for a mystery man's prattle.

"I'm sorry, Madame. It's only that I'm not very sure of where I'm from. Memory charms, you know. Well, you don't but I do and I've told you so now I suppose you do, don't you?"

"Um, I...I'm sorry. Did...did Death Eaters do this to you?" She looked and sounded suddenly contrite, a pained spark in her eyes making Harry believe perhaps she'd been touched by the early horror of Voldemort's regime.

"No, Madame. My fellow townsfolk, I'm afraid. We were all living under the Fidelius and I wanted to come out into - well, the rest of the world, really, but the secret...I'm boring you, right? Sorry."

"No! No, no," she adjusted her baby again, looking at him with wide eyes, "Is that true? An entire town, hiding from the Dark Lord?"

"_The_ Dark...no. You mean the You-Know-Who fellow, right? I hadn't heard of him until I left home. I think, originally, my ancestors went into hiding from muggles or maybe Morgaine, it's difficult to be sure, since the old-timers like to romanticize things. They could have been hiding from tax collections, really. There's no way to be certain."

"Oh," she said in a disappointed tone, "well, it still sounds rather incredible. You have no idea where it was?"

"I could make an educated guess at the region, though I'd rather not. I feel very confident in saying I'm of English origin but where I was born and where I was raised, I can only guess and will not say."

"Such a peculiar story...how large was the town?"

"Large enough, we were independently functional, part ingenuity and part magic. Perhaps one thousand wizards and witches, descended from an original population of around eighty. There may have been more in the beginning who weren't recorded, some of the families have always been more paranoid than others, changing their names and living underground when they're already in hiding. It would be funny if their fears weren't such stressful burdens on them."

"My...that does sound sad. I've forgotten to ask, what's your name?"

"Harry," he said as he extended a hand for her to shake, "Harry Plunkett."

"Plunkett? I'm Mattie Fairfeather. I'd expected you to have a...well, I don't mean to be rude _again_ but-"

"You were expecting a pureblood wizarding name?"

"I'm sorry, yes, I was. It's just, with your story..."

"I know, I've heard it before. The truth is, some of the families kept their actual surnames closely guarded, only telling close friends or the eldest and most trusted members of their clans. Unfortunately sometimes true names were lost and this was the case with my family, so I'm left with what was made up generations ago to use in lieu of it. Again, it would be funny -"

"If it wasn't so sad. How awful, I can't imagine having such an unsteady family history."

Buckbeak snorted loudly and stamped a front foot down impatiently.

"I'm sorry, Mad - um, Missus - is it Mrs. Fairfeather or Miss?"

"It's Mrs. but you can call me Mattie," she said firmly.

"Mattie," Harry said gratefully, "I'd best be getting Buckbeak to a place where he can rest up, we've just flown up from Drear Isle and I'm sure he's tired." The hippogriff hissed a bit. "And hungry, I know Beaky. You'll get your ferret if I have to floo to a city to get it."

"Abe should have some on hand, he gets his from the local feed shop, they provide the supply for Hogwarts, too. Abe's the owner of the Hog's Head."

"Thank you, you've been very helpful. And thank you for listening to me gab, too. I didn't mean to delay you so much."

"Nonsense! I haven't heard anything half so interesting in years. I hope to be seeing you around town, Mr. Plunkett."

"Harry."

"Harry," she repeated, and bowed her head to him as she had earlier to Buckbeak. "The Hog's Head is just down that street," she said pointing, "and to the left."

"Thank you again, Good Day, Mattie."

"Good Luck," she returned, and let out a loud gasp when he and the hippogriff walked past her, revealing the curious, smiling house elf on Buckbeak's back. Dobby waved at her as they went down the street and she absently returned the gesture.

_That went well enough. _He had just planted more than half his story into the Hogsmeade grapevine and was now set off to stay under the keen eye of a Dumbledore. _Fairfeather...bakers, aren't they?_ Harry thought on them a moment, having become very familiar with most Hogsmeadians in his own time he expected he'd find many familiar faces. _Fairfeather...quidditch. Some team...ah, Isabella Fairfeather, chaser for Puddlemere United. Probably either the toddler or the baby. _It was rather strange, thinking of an adult his peers idolized, after seeing them as a babe. _Oliver was on the same team as her._ Oliver Wood, who had been his mentor in quidditch, who had shown him a snitch for the first time. _Don't think about it, facing Abe dizzy is a bad move..._

He reached the Hog's Head's side entrance and knocked. Walking into the bar with a hippogriff wouldn't be the strangest thing to happen at the tavern but he didn't want to endanger Buckbeak. He waited a few minutes and knocked again, a bit louder. _Maybe they're having a brawl inside?_ The door finally swung open, revealing Aberforth Dumbledore, in all his bedraggled glory. The wizard narrowed his sharp eyes at Harry and the younger man couldn't help but fidget a little. "You wanted somethin'?"

"Yes, I was knocking to ask about getting a room and a stable for my hippogriff." Buckbeak gollumed. "And ferrets. This place was recommended to me."

"Why's he need both? Just a room i'nt good 'nough?"

Harry quirked his head to the side with the beginnings of a smile. "I meant a room for myself and my house elf friend and a stable stall for our hippogriff." Dobby leaned over the side of Buckbeak's neck then and eyed the bartender.

Aberforth met the elf's eyes a bit less narrowly. "Hello. This is your hippogriff, too, eh?"

"Hello, sir. Yes, Buckbeak is being a friend of both of us."

"Ah, I see." He looked back at Harry. "One galleon, six sickles a night for a stable, five sickles a night for a room."

If Harry hadn't been expecting what he considered to be ridiculously low rates, he might have gotten weak in the knees or whooped with glee. As it was, he knew that Aberforth considered it a high price and merely nodded, withdrawing his money bag from his robe pocket and taking out one gold and eleven silver coins. "What about the cost of feed?"

"His is free," he said while gesturing with his head at Buckbeak, "yours is extra. What's the elf eat?"

"The same as me."

"He's extra too. You can git yer meals in the bar when you want them or have breakfast and dinner sent up and added to your lodging bill for twenty-five knuts a day."

Harry exchanged a look with Dobby and Aberforth watched their silent communication curiously. When the young wizard turned back around the bartender quickly reverted to a fully guarded expression. "Add on the meals, then." Taking out another silver coin, he added, "I don't have that many knuts, though."

"I'll throw in a few free drinks then. Let's get your 'griff settled." He opened the door completely and closed it behind himself, then bowed to the bored-looking creature, keeping his eyes locked with it. Buckbeak returned the bow, already familiar with Aberforth from visits at their old Hogsmeade home. The man would usually have something in his pockets for him and the hippogriff stepped forward when Aberforth stood, and began sniffing his robes. "Whoa there, you don't need to be chomping on a firework, do yeh?" Gently pushing the animal away, he guided it to the back of the building, through a small grey picket fence. A wooden barn stood before a small courtyard. They were led inside, onto a stone floor which was flanked on either side by large stalls. The whole barn smelled of goats and fresh hay and the scent brought a little smile out of Harry. _"Performing inappropriate charms on a goat..." How could Albus have even said that in front of a fourteen year old? _He chuckled under his breath at the memory, of both the conversation and the late Headmaster's quirky humor.

The stalls were mostly empty, the first two on either side held a few goats each and the third and fourth down on the right held Granian winged horses he knew belonged to Aberforth. The last two stalls on the left held Thestrals and he caught Aberforth eyeing him to see if he noticed them or not. Harry pointedly looked straight at them and said, "Softer creatures than people think, aren't they?"

A guffaw was the answer. "You'd like my brother; he thinks they're sweet as kittens. Those two aren't his though," he said as he gave Harry a serious look, "and they're not cuddly. Even if they were they're under protection charms. No meddling, understand lad?"

"Yes, I'll refrain from hugging strange horses," he said just as seriously. "Thank you for warning me."

"Harry is being too silly," Dobby scolded, "he is sounding rude."

Blushing brightly and actually feeling a bit shamed, he said, "Sorry, sir," to Aberforth.

After the man had looked between the two beings for a moment he let out a loud chuckle. "How old are you kids, anyway?"

"Twenty-five," Harry answered.

"Twenty-nine," Dobby added.

"Ah," he said as he put Buckbeak in the last stall on the right, "and how long have you known each other?"

At the same time, Harry said, "Since I was twelve," and Dobby said, "Since Dobby was seventeen."

Like Albus, Harry still wasn't sure if Aberforth could read or not. He did know the business man could count to at least three hundred and do math. "So you've been friends for thirteen years? This isn't your unlucky year, is it?"

Dobby answered, as Harry was struck silent. "No, that was being our first. We is not being partable, we is too tough. Right, Harry Plunkett?"

Hearing the elf say his cover name for the first time since they'd picked it out the previous summer shook him out of his superstitious worrying and Harry smiled at his friend, glad at hearing how natural and familiar the new name sounded when Dobby said it that way. "Right. How much worse could it get than it was when we first met, anyway?"

Aberforth looked between his grinning customers and made a note to ask later. He handed the hippogriff a ferret from a barrel against the back wall and nearly lost his hand, then nonchalantly got the beast another ferret, which was taken with less haste, as Buckbeak merely dropped it over the railing of his stall door before going back to the first one. Dobby hopped down and climbed the door, then jumped to stand next to Harry. "Let's get you two settled then," the barkeep said, and turned to walk out of the barn.

Harry stepped forward and told Buckbeak they'd see him later, Dobby echoing him. They followed Aberforth back around to the side door, going into a small foyer which had two doors and the bottom stairs of a wooden wrap-around staircase.

"The kitchen's on the right, stay out of it. Straight ahead's my rooms, stay out of 'em." Turning to the left, he led them up the stairs and into a long, narrow hall, with a wooden floor covered in grey filth. They went straight down the hall, to another set of stairs which went to a hall much the same, though slightly less dirty. As Aberforth went to the end and gestured at the last door on the right, Harry wasn't sure if he should be glad or worried. "There's a little terrace, don't step too heavy on it or it might fall off with you on it." With the gruff warning, he fished a key out of the front hip pocket of his robes and handed it to Harry. "I s'pose you can just pop in on your own," he told the elf, and then he swept down the hall in a manner that would have reminded them both of Snape if not for the clouds of dust it kicked up at the man's feet.

Looking at the tarnished silver key in his hand, Harry felt himself shiver lightly. He went to the door and turned the key in the lock, going into the same room Aberforth had given him when he'd needed a place to put himself together after the war and Hogwarts had still made him feel too raw. _"The second-best in the house. Don't stomp on the terrace, it might fall down. See if you can get that green stuff out of the carpet while you're here, eh?" It took nearly three weeks but I did get it out of the carpet._ Stepping in and to the side so Dobby could come in too, he saw that the same strange clump of...whatever it was sat embedded in the worn red carpet. _At least this time I know it needs a potion and spell on it._ The room looked much the same, the white and gold wallpaper was still slightly yellowed. They had a small maple table and chair set in the corner by the door, a large silver sleigh bed with worn-looking white sheets and a gold coverlet. The curtains hanging ceiling to floor were moth-eaten white lace and framed two large windows and their matching door. It opened onto a metal terrace, about seven feet wide and four feet deep and of highly questionable stability. _I've fallen asleep drunk on that terrace a dozen times. _He took off his satchel and set it on the bed. Paying for a room at the Hog's Head meant paying for security and privacy as well. Second best to Gringotts.

Dobby opened the door to the ensuite bathroom and peeked inside. He drew back and looked at Harry with wide eyes. "We...we is staying here for how long, Harry Potter?"

"I don't know where else we can keep Buckbeak safe until we get - where we're going." The Aberforth who knew him had not, as far as Harry knew, placed listening charms on his room when he'd stayed there. This one...he drew his spare wand out and began silently checking. Dobby threw his hands over his mouth, looking horrified at his slip of Harry's real name. Casting a silencing spell on the room, he looked at Dobby. "One, I think it was probably a personally monitored spell, like one for checking up on a room in real time. I've removed it; I think we're probably clear. He might not have been listening when you said it."

"Dobby is sorry!" The elf wailed, looking as upset as he'd been when they'd first met.

"Don't worry! If you've slipped there's nothing for it. I could have done it just as easily, we have a cover for it anyway, the paranoid family members, remember? We're fine." Dobby sniffled but nodded, disappearing and reappearing on the bed, taking his bag off his back and fiddling with the clasp. "We should be here for at least three weeks, to make sure we're remembered. We've got a lot to get done, anyway. After that, we'll see where we are. There's no telling what we can count on from here."

"Dobby knows," the elf said as Harry sat beside him on the bed, "he is not slipping up again, Harry P-Plunkett."

"Hm," Harry sounded wistfully, "it might be better for both of us if you did use my alias in private. It could help me stay in character, you know?"

"Dobby is not losing Harry Potter for Harry Plunkett," the elf said seriously and when Harry looked he saw he was being given a dirty look.

"No, I - I...that's not what I meant," he finished weakly. _It was what I meant. Now I'm lying to Dobby? Great start in the new world, Harry._ "I just want us to be as secure here as possible, Dobby. There's no telling what would happen to us if we were revealed. I'm not even sure who we'd be in the most danger of, Voldemort or the Ministry."

"Dobby knows and we is going to be ready. We is going to take care of ourselves. We is not going to throw ourselves away," he finished sharply. With that, he stood on the bed and walked to the pillow with his bag and settled down, apparently to sleep.

Harry swallowed. His friend had maintained the same attitude in earlier discussions of the journey. _"Harry Potter is not risking his other self not being born." "Harry Potter is not jeopardizing his claim to the Potter family, he is not losing his blood's home!" "Dobby is not letting his wizard go there alone; you will be waiting for Dobby!" Little Hangleton...Merlin, he probably still wants to follow me there, to get that bleeding Horcrux together. I'm not letting him, he'd want to grab it to keep me safe and _- he pictured Dobby with a hand or arm that was withered and black as Dumbledore's had been -_ I can't allow that to happen._ It was like shielding Ron and Hermione from the worst of the war, reflexive and necessary to his sanity.

_My saving people thing, Hermione. Aren't you glad now, to know you've always been right and I've still got it?_ He idly wondered if someone would write to her straight away, if she'd be finding out the next day with everyone he'd written letters for, if she'd cry or scream first, out of frustration or pain. She'd once given voice to the drive behind his Gryffindor foolishness. _"I know you don't want to be the last one standing, Harry. Neither do I." The last one standing's always alone._ He shook his head and shifted up to lie on the bed beside Dobby, shrugging his pack off. The two of them lay among their mutual baggage on top of the covers and slept until the dawn of the next day.

**

* * *

**

Harry stirred restlessly, hearing rummaging at the foot of his bed. _Not my bed. Not soft or comfy or...Lady?_ He reached out with his mind for his Lady Hogwarts and felt a stab of panic as he failed to connect to the spirit of his home. Coming abruptly awake, he saw the room he and Dobby were staying in at the Hog's Head and calmed slightly, ignoring his heart's tremors at not finding his Lady as he remembered where he was and what they'd done. He let out an unsteady chuckle, drawing Dobby's attention. "Morning Dobby."

"Good morning Harry Potter. Dobby is hoping he did not wake you."

"No - I just. Hogwarts."

The elf's brow furrowed as he eyed his wizard more closely. "Hogwarts?"

"It's -" _not silly, she's not silly, she's home and_ "- I was just surprised to not wake up there. It's been awhile since I've slept anywhere but there or at the house." _The house, our house, Dobby, in our world which we've just recently abandoned to the wolves. Whee._ Dobby slowly nodded and then went back to his bag, apparently looking for something important. Harry was amused to note that among the small articles on the bed was a rumpled-looking potted African violet, which he recognized as Dobby's personal house plant, previously kept in the elf's room at their house. "What are you looking for? You haven't brought any...pets, have you?"

"No, Harry Potter. Dobby is looking for the map his wizard made him."

The relief that there wasn't a rodent or magical bug faded under the news. "Dobby, you're not - we're not...we can't have that!"

"Yes, we can. We can be hiding it until we could have made it on our own, it wouldn't be very hard, since we is already knowing how. Dobby's wizard's father was a cartographer, it's a family trade. Hogsmeade is a fascinating town and a symbol of British Wizardry, Harry Plunkett could not resist documenting it."

"It's a spying device, Dobby. If someone finds out they'll say we're using it to spy on the town."

"Maybe we is, Harry Potter. Maybe we is looking for Death Eaters, unofficially and looking after friends, officially. Dobby is sure it will be more believable after you have made more maps."

Harry swallowed as Dobby pulled out the thick parchment of their map of Hogsmeade. _It's true enough, Dad was a map maker..._ He'd made the Hogsmeade map when he'd decided to buy a house there, where he'd felt he and Dobby would be more vulnerable. Part of watching their backs had been watching the names that walked the streets. _I did work out a simple formula, the bare bones of the Marauder's Map, to make it. Dobby's right, we could map out another location and do the spells to make it a live map..._

"Dobby is not seeing the names of any Death Eaters, anywhere. The lady we met is four blocks away, with three other Fairfeathers, in the bakery. Dobby is thinking the babies is Isabella and Mathilda, the other is called Baxter."

"Yeah, Isabella's one of the babies. She'll play quidditch for Puddlemere in about fifteen years."

"Mister Aberforth Dumbledore is downstairs, at the bar. Mundungus Fletcher is there also, Dobby is thinking he is at a table. His dot is wobbly, he must be dru - drowsy."

"Who's at the Three Broomsticks?"

"Mmn...Madame Rosemerta is there, Mister Mad-Eye is at a corner table, with three other men Dobby is not knowing and there is a Wheezy Dobby hasn't heard of, named 'William' at the bar." His eyes busily scanned the bar on the map a moment before he said, "There is being no one else Dobby is knowing of there. Oh!"

"What is it?" Harry sprang up from his half-reclined pose on the bed and leaned forward anxiously, thinking a Death Eater must have shown up.

"Hagrid sir! He is just walking down the street into Hogsmeade."

"Oh," he breathed in relief. His heart still raced in a fluttery rhythm as he thought of seeing his friend again, yet not as a friend and over twenty years younger than he remembered him. _Aberforth was one thing but Hagrid..."You're a wizard, Harry!"_ "Maybe we should arrange a meeting between him and Buckbeak, somehow."

"Dobby is thinking that will not be so hard. He is coming in this direction."

"He'll probably still be in the bar when I get down," Harry said as he slid off the bed. He was chagrined to note he'd gone to bed fully dressed, boots and all. "I'm going to take a shower, Dobby." He picked the satchel of clothes Dobby had brought for him up off the bed and took a step towards the door to the ensuite bathroom.

"No!" Dobby shrieked, suddenly looking panicked. "Harry Potter can not! It is dangerous in there, he could be eaten! There is green and blue throbby things everywhere!"

"Uh...oh. Right." _Hog's Head, remember? I guess the bath had been cleaned when I got this room before...or in the future or whatever._

"Dobby is already trying to fix it with his magic, he could get rid of the dirt and most of the slime but the moving sludge and bloodstains wouldn't come up."

"Bloodstains?" _Second-best room in the house, huh Abe?_ "Well...I guess I'm not that dirty." He looked down at himself. "I don't really look too rumpled, either. We're supposed to be imitating a nomadic lifestyle anyway, right?"

"Yes, a little rumpling is fine for Harry Plunkett."

"Right. I'll just...stay clear of the bath and shower then." He set the bag back down and fished for a toothbrush and toothpaste, then took a steadying breath and disappeared into the bathroom. Five minutes later he came out with a still disgusted expression on his face. "It's not...it's fixable, I guess. There weren't any of those...whatever they are, when I stayed here before. No stains either -" _and really, since when do people get murdered at the Hog's Head? Unless they were actually slaughtering hogs in there..._ "- so it has to all be removable. I'll pick up some cleaning potions in Diagon today."

"You is still planning to go there so soon?" The elf sounded somewhat disapproving, as though this were a seriously flawed part of the plan.

"Yes. I know we don't have the Blacksphere to secure anymore, so getting a vault at Gringotts isn't as important but I still need a broom. More importantly, I need a proper wand. The one I have now is a good one to fall back on in a fight but it's nothing like...it just isn't attuned. It's not - it doesn't speak to my magic the way the other one did."

"Dobby is still not knowing why you left your true wand behind."

"Because everyone seems to just be able to know things when it comes to wands. The Ministry, Ollivander's, the talking fish in the Betweens - they all knew more about it than I did! I've checked it out, Dobby. If they wanted to find out more - if this world's Voldemort or Order got hold of it and looked, really looked, they could find out where the core came from. Fawkes gave two feathers, just two. Those two can be accounted for, so where would mine have come from? Why would such a memorable wand as the brother to Voldemort's have another duplicate, the same wood, length, core..." He trailed off and sighed. Leaving the wand felt like a mistake, no matter how right it had been. He just wanted to get to Diagon and - "I need to replace it, what's done is done."

"Dobby supposes his wizard is right," the elf said quietly. "Harry Potter is needing a wand he can rely on. We is both needing to be as formidable as possible."

Harry blinked when the elf said 'formidable.' Dobby had changed nearly as much as he had, since the day they'd met. "Dobby, you didn't bring any books with publishing dates after 1973, did you?"

"No, Harry Potter!" He sounded rather shocked and affronted. "Dobby did not even bring any books! Instead he is bringing a list of books to get here, so they is being aged properly and we is not having to explain where they came from."

"Oh, that's - that's good thinking." _Why didn't I think of that?_

"Dobby is only bringing important things," he said as he nodded at the African violet on the bed. "His favorite sweaters and socks and hats and - things."

"Things?"

"Wasn't Harry Plunkett going somewhere?"

"Yeah," Harry agreed with a wry grin, "I guess he should."

"Hagrid sir is downstairs in the bar," Dobby said as he looked back at the map.

Harry left the room, clad in the same clothes as the day before. _Probably advantageous, it's a young looking outfit._

He went down the third floor hall and stairs and instead of going to the other end of the second-floor hall, where he'd been shown the staircase which led to the outside, he went straight to the matching winding wooden staircase in front of the one to the third floor, which took him to another filthy hall, this one shorter and much narrower so that its traffic was somewhat concealed from the open space at the opposite end. He went down the dirty walkway and came out into a curtained alcove which separated paying guests from the public tavern. Checking his stature, he loosened his shoulders and tried to slip into his desired projection of youthful curiosity and shyness, not needing to prompt himself towards the sign of Harry Plunkett's paranoia, as his body was already a mix of firm and limber, with his hand slightly tensed over where the spare wand was in his pocket. _Ready to dodge or defend, like a good little wizard puppet. Wouldn't Dumbledore be glad?_

He stepped out and feigned surprise at the odd garb of some of the patrons. There weren't as many masked customers as he had seen the first time he'd stepped into the Hog's Head with Ron and Hermione but he knew it was still enough that anyone unfamiliar with it should have felt it unusual. _But secrecy is a comfort zone for Plunkett, innit? After so many years around people afraid to say their names..._ He strode into the room with caution, not faking his need to carefully look over the people around him. He made an effort to contain his heart when he saw the familiar form of his friend. _First friend, really._ A blur of years sitting at the man's table with inedible rock cakes and tea clouded his vision, a hundred hearty laughs stuffing his ears like cotton. Hagrid was the first person he could remember hugging him, ever.

"Have you gone deaf, lad?"

He shook his head quickly and looked to the source of the voice. Aberforth was looking at him with some mix of amusement and irritation. "I'm sorry, what did you say, sir?" He felt several pairs of eyes on him at the last word, said so naturally.

"Breakfast. It'll get sent up to your room in about half an hour, unless you want it down here. I'm not in the habit of waking people up this early just for food, unless they ask me to ahead of time."

He smiled reflexively. "I'd forgotten about it. I'll wait and eat with Dobby." He went up to the bar and said a bit more quietly, "You did mention a free drink yesterday, though."

"Ah, a few, to make up the difference in what you paid," Aberforth clarified, for the benefit of all eavesdroppers. "What'll it be?"

"Meade," he said, as though it were obvious.

The bartender nodded and grabbed an almost clean looking stein, filling it with the drink. He looked down the bar at Hagrid, who was drinking peacefully, and nodded back at Harry. "This is the man I was telling you about, Rubeus." Glancing at Harry he added with a mischievous twinkle reminiscent of his brother, "Flew into town on the back of a hippogriff, from what I hear." He winked at the younger man, as though to say that the revealing of such information, the practice of gossip, was not simply common practice to him.

He kept from swallowing by force of will, knowing his nervous excitement at seeing a lost and dearly missed friend could easily be misread as unease at meeting a half-giant. Taking a peek at Hagrid, expressing the jolt of emotions in his chest at locking eyes with the friendly beetle black gaze through only a hesitant smile, he turned back to Aberforth and said, "It's true," quietly and unnecessarily. He sent a curious glance at Hagrid, silently asking why the bartender had decided to clue them in on each other.

"Abe's said yer good to 'im," he said in a way which was appreciative and speculative at once. "How long yeh 'ad 'im?"

"Years," Harry answered automatically, and then elaborated, "I've been taking care of him for over six years but we've been acquainted for twelve. I was good friends with his previous owners."

"An' what happened ta them?"

"They -" _You_ "-they're no longer-" _Beaky almost died without you, Hagrid, he wouldn't eat,_ "- they're gone," _I didn't really blame him but I couldn't let him pull a Fawkes on me and die from the grief, you wouldn't have -_

"Sorry," the other man said awkwardly. "Di'n't mean ta...bring up a loss."

Harry smiled weakly. "It's been a long time. Buckbeak took it harder."

"That the name o' the Hippogriff?"

The smile widened. _Hagrid always said a creature's name as though it were a proper name, a title._ "Yes, though sometimes Dobby and I, he's a free house elf, we call him Beaky. His original owner nicknamed him that and he appreciates its use." He could see some dawning respect in the man's eyes and felt his stomach flip.

"An' he's stabled here?" There was an edge of hopefulness in his tone.

_Your hope and mine, friend._ "Yes. Would you like to see him? He's become very tolerant of strangers and I was going to check up on him soon anyway."

Aberforth picked that moment to scoff at the spot of clean bar he was swishing a disgusting rag over. "Tolerant," he muttered.

"What? Did something happen?" _Is he okay? Oh, Merlin, what was I thinking leaving him alone for so many hours?_

"Fine, fine," he said absently, as though he couldn't hear the panicked note in his customer's voice. "Just he isn't really only tolerant, is he? He seems to just ignore everyone until they engage 'im, then lower himself to their level. More like he's above noticing."

"Well, we are just a bunch of humans and he is a Hippogriff," Harry said in a light tone after he'd caught his breath. _He's fine, he's under Abe's care and that pretty much means safe. At least for anything with hooves._

The sound of a heavy stein coming down onto the bar preceded Hagrid saying agreeably, "I think I would like teh see your Beaky, Mister...?"

"Plunkett," he answered automatically.

"Hagrid," the half-giant said, offering a hand to shake that was about six times the size of Harry's own.

Turning a soft grin up at his standing companion he too rose and said, "Let's go see him then, Mr. Hagrid."

"Jus' Hagrid," he corrected absently.

They went out the front and around to the back to the barn. Harry heard Buckbeak make a cooing noise when they came in and it drew Hagrid into the beast's view. Keeping a careful eye on the hippogriff's reactions, he watched as the half-giant approached the stall and stopped short by about ten feet, to bow. Beaky had backed up and shaken his head at the sight of his old caretaker but when the vision bowed to him, respect in the eyes locked with his own, he'd stamped his front feet uncertainly and then returned the gesture, deeply exaggerated. When he rose he walked to the railing and squawked, shook his head and then trilled. Watching Hagrid approach the hippogriff and gently stroke his feathered neck, Harry felt a wave of rightness coast through the air.

"Hello there, Beaky," Hagrid said in a friendly tone. The greeting started up some silly-sounding chirps and happy little trills, some of them sounds Harry hadn't known hippogriffs could make. "Well, yeh are a friendly boy, aren't yeh?"

Stepping up to the pair with a ferret from the barrel, probably under a preservation charm, Harry found himself actually being ignored, while holding food. "Beaky?" he queried in an amused tone. The yellow eyes didn't even flicker in his direction. He cleared his throat and waved the ferret a little. Buckbeak absently caught it in his beak, still staring at Hagrid, feet and wings twitching and throat working out the little pleased noises. "I've never seen him take to someone like this. Have you got a speaking gift?"

The man was awed by the hippogriff's reaction as well but was still grounded enough to be sensible. "A what?" He darted a look at Harry and Buckbeak made some slightly lower pitched noises to show he didn't like the change in focus. "Y' mean like a mage?" he asked uncomfortably.

_Of course magic's a sore spot for him, idiot. _"No, not really, I don't think. Just someone who speaks an animal's language or has a psychic affinity towards them. I once knew a girl who could charm Demiguises very well; she claimed that communicating with animals who held the power of invisibility came naturally to members of her family." _All true, thank you Luna._

"Oh...ah, no. I ain't got nuthin' like that. Be nice to have that skill sometimes, though. Some of the animals at Hogwarts get right feisty."

"Hogwarts?"

"Tha's right," he said as he drew himself up, "I'm the Keeper of the Keys and Grounds there. Got a few Hippogriffs in the Forest, though mostly I get to deal with those," he said as he gestured with a thumb to the thestrals in the last two stalls opposite Buckbeak's.

"Thestrals," Harry said with a nod, not sure whether Hagrid was testing out whether or not Harry could see them or if the older man had been able to see them for so long he'd temporarily forgotten others couldn't, as he'd seemed to have done in Harry's fifth year when he featured them in Care of Magical Creatures class. "Is it true the headmaster there thinks they're as tame as kittens?"

Hagrid's eyes narrowed slightly. "The Headmaster's good ta all creatures. Dumbledore's a great wizard and right intuitive. Whatever faith he's got in anything, yeh can bet it's there with good reason."

Harry blushed but maintained eye contact. "I didn't mean to offend. Mister Aberforth said something to me about it. I was only curious, since they have such a rough reputation. I would think most people would be too afraid to give them a chance."

"Oh," Hagrid said as he glanced at the floor looking slightly shame-faced, "no harm done, eh? Yer right 'bout most people, lucky Dumbledore ain't one of 'em. He's always been one for giving chances. Lot like Abe to be picking at 'im though."

"Why's that?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"Well, it's what brothers do, innit?" Suddenly the man looked like he'd let the dragon out of the hut. Harry only gave a friendly smile.

"Yes, I suppose it is. I haven't got any blood brothers but I've gained a few unofficial siblings over the years. Merlin knows they enjoy teasing me whenever possible."

"Ah," the man said as he regained his composure, "I'm an only child too. I was more'n enough for my da to deal with. Seen hordes of brothers and sisters up at the castle though. They give each other plen'y of trouble."

Harry's smile was more nostalgic this time. "I'm sure they do."

"Your, er, unofficial brothers were a riot?"

He laughed shortly. "Oh yeah. One was so annoying I started calling him my little brother, even though he was a few months older than me. Then there were the others...all older, all overprotective. I'd get _stalked_ on the way to the grocer's, 'in case something happened.'"

"These are dangerous times," Hagrid mused as he looked him up and down appraisingly. "What's a boy yer age doin' wandering around by yerself, anyway?"

"I'm not by myself, I have Dobby and Buckbeak."

"Dobby?"

"A good friend. He's a free house elf."

Hagrid frowned thoughtfully. "Powerful magic, House Elves."

"Yes, he's rather clever too. I'd count on him to save my life more than I would any wizard." The honest statement earned him another evaluating look, though this one was given with some approval glinting in Hagrid's dark eyes. Harry smiled slightly and ducked his head apologetically. "Speaking of Dobby, I just told Mister Aberforth - er, Dumbledore, that I'd be taking breakfast with him in our room about now. I ought not to hold him up." He thrust a hand out boldly, though held it between them with some wariness. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Hagrid," his smile widened as his hand was completely covered by Hagrid's in a firm handshake, "we'll probably run into each other again, if you come to town often."

"Oh? How long're you plannin' on staying here?"

"At least a couple weeks, perhaps three or four."

"Why spend so much time here just to leave? There ain't much to see." Harry raised an eyebrow and Hagrid looked a bit flustered. "Not tha' yeh aren't welcome, it's just we don't get many...visitors, anymore. Not with what's going on."

"With You-Know-Who?"

He looked at him like he was a bit touched in the head. "Well, what else 'as been causing trouble for all of Wizarding Britain?"

Harry's face took on a worried expression. "He's that bad?"

"Merlin, don't cha know? He's the worst wizard in history! Worse'n Grindelwald!"

"Who?"

"Grindel- where on earth are yeh from, boy?"

The half-yell had been so familiarly tainted with concern and exasperation that Harry had to look at the floor a moment to hide his fond look. "Around, I guess. I never got much news when I was growing up."

"_News?_ This is history! Thirty years ago, just 'bout, the Dark Lord Grindelwald rose to power, tryin' ta wipe out or enslave anyone who wasn't of pure magical blood. Nasty piece of work, he was. Those were dark times Plunkett, but this new one...I've got the feeling things're going to be a lot worse than what people've ever thought they could be. An' that it isn't a good idea for someone to be traveling alone. Better your hide than mine," he added as he raised his hands in defeat, knowing he was only going to hear about the House Elf again.

"Well...we're not much for news or modern history where I'm from. We keep to ourselves, you know? I just...wanted to see the world, I guess. Hogsmeade's an important part of it, right?" Hagrid looked doubtful, as though he'd just been offered a reason not to trust the younger man. Harry smiled shakily, hoping stretched nerves from the thought of Voldemort - no, 'You-Know-Who,' would explain his slightly fraying mood. "I hope to see you around, Hagrid. Please, drop in on Beaky whenever you want."

With that he turned and left the barn, hearing the half-giant call, "I'll be seeing you, Plunkett," before turning back to an indignant hippogriff to soothe his feathers.

**

* * *

**

Midgy the house elf was, like most of her kind, caring and genuine. She wished to please and at Hogwarts she was often given the privilege of doing so. Today she was doing something very special, she had an important and secret mission from Dobby, the only happy free elf she'd ever met. Knowing that the Wizard Dobby chose to serve was none other than the Boy Who Lived, the sweet little babe turned Professor who had saved the world from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, filled her with pride as this meant she was somehow performing a task for the friendly young Wizard as well. She had met Professor Potter only twice but he had a reputation among them all, as a polite and gentle man whom Hogwarts Herself favored.

Popping into the Headmistress' office with one of Professor Potter's letters extended towards the older woman in a thick cream envelope, Midgy smiled as she imagined that whatever 'important information' was contained in the missive, which 'had to be a surprise,' and could not have been delivered a moment sooner, would likely please the Headmistress greatly. She thought that whatever would cause such a good Wizard and good elf to go through so much trouble just to surprise Professor Potter's friends, had to be wonderful. Fortunately, as Dobby had given her explicit instructions to deliver one letter after another, so that all eight would be recieved within two minutes of each other, then return to the kitchens to attend to her duties, Midgy would completely miss the reactions of those whom she was only trying to please.


	3. Diagonally Loopdeloop

Dragon Effect

Story Summary: Harry has lived with an obsessive mania revolving around 'what-ifs' and 'could haves.' This has lead him to eventually apply his theories to real life and risk a journey to a younger Earth which seems to have evolved in his world's footsteps. At twenty-five, he arrives in his new world's year of 1973, where he intends to make waves in a very calculated fashion. He seeks out familiar people with the aim of forming bonds that will literally change the world.

Disclaimer: I get nothing out of writing this story except my own enjoyment and no infringement on the series' creator, publishers or distributors rights is intended. J. K. Rowling owns the game, I'm only playing. Speaking of, have you seen those neat Harry Potter plushies yet? Cute!

Actual Story Notes: There is a deliberate reference to the Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets video game, again. I've always liked the restricted section of the library level, with the exception of those biting books. This is not as polished as I would like but I think it's about darn time I put it up. I'm not entirely sure that all of Dobby's section will read as coherent to someone who isn't me, so please let me know if it gives you a headache. By the by, sorry about the bad joke - you'll know it when you see it. Oh, and thank you, thank you, thank you to the five people who have actually taken the time to review - I'm jubilant.

WARNINGS: A little liquor, some elf angst and Harry gets molested by a wand, if you squint.

Chapter 3: Diagonally Loop-de-loop

Sybill Trelawney sat upon an overstuffed blue velvet pouffe, staring fixedly at the single card in her right hand; in her left she lazily cradled a tumbler of cherry schnapps. The Fool, the first card of the Major Arcana in the Tarot. A carefree young man was pictured taking the first step of a journey, one foot hovering precariously over the edge of a cliff. Over his shoulder was slung a small pack containing all of his worldly goods and at his side was a small white dog, following his steps but barking at him in warning. The handsome lad was illuminated by the rising sun, his face raised towards the distance ahead of him. In one hand he clutched a wizard's staff, smooth light wood adorned by a single gold ring. In the other hand the stem of a white rose was clasped between thumb and forefinger with an unconsciously gentle grasp, its soft petals glittering up at Sybill as they had been made crystalline by morning dew. She gazed into the scene as though expecting a textual explanation to come forth from the painted sky.

A pop signaled the entrance of a house elf, who further intruded upon her tower's peace by loudly squeaking out, "Midgy has brought you a-"

"Yes, I know. I've been expecting you. Leave it on the table."

Accustomed to the ways of Professor Trelawney, who was often hung over at this time of day, Midgy simply left the envelope on the round dining table behind the woman. A second pop and she was gone from the professor's private chambers.

While before she had been deeply contemplating the Fool, now she frowned at his young face and glared balefully as it was clearly replaced with another's. Professor Potter was supposed to have met her last night, for after dinner drinks in her tower. His green eyes glinted in the light of the painted sun as her feeling that he was preparing to do something foolish grew into a realization of what had happened. Either dead or gone, Harry would be her drinking partner no more. Like most who were close to him, she had known for years that he lived with his heart in the past, broken by Fate's blows. Sybill believed in destiny, unchangeable futures everyone was bound to helplessly spiral towards; it was one of the reasons she drank so much. As she lay the card down before her the face of her friend blurred back into the similarly innocent and hopeful image of the Fool.

Harry did not believe in fate, as he had told her many times. _"Predictions are not law."_ They had argued over the existence of free will in endless circles, Harry doing something which deliberately defied a prediction and Sybill telling him she'd seen it coming. In the end he would always storm off, scowling fiercely. She could talk about Nostradamus until she was blue in the face, the lad wouldn't change his mind. He had faith in the mutability of life. She hoped it would be enough, that he would be able to bring that in which he trusted into realization. A bit of visualization certainly couldn't hurt his cause, assuming he was still alive.

With a sigh she turned to her table and reached for the envelope she'd been unconsciously waiting for since Harry had spent the previous weekend devoted to having fun flying. "_Fortuna favet fatuis,_" she intoned. _Fortune favors fools._ "But you had best have left me some liquor, Potter," she added as she unsealed what she knew would be a farewell note from one of the few friends she had made in her adult life.

**

* * *

**

After paying for another night's stay at the Hog's Head, Harry gave in to Dobby's reproaches about their mutual safety and walking into all but unknown situations alone, so that he agreed to have the elf met him beside the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron only a moment after he'd flooed in. Disillusioned, the soft pop of Dobby's entrance was lost amidst the noise of the tavern and they left the Leaky Cauldron for the Alley, garnering only a few speculative murmurs from the customers about the handsome stranger. He braced himself before tapping the bricks, knowing that the Alley would resemble the world he'd unwillingly left behind as a child more than the one he'd abandoned as a man. As the archway formed before them, both elf and wizard stared with genuine awe.

Harry had prepared himself for uncracked paving stones, a lack of scorch marks, the presence of old and long lost architecture and a general sense of well-being. He hadn't been ready for a jubilantly colored street of flourishing businesses which easily outdid his first view of the Alley at eleven. Wandering forward in a slight daze, he made note of the street vendors who had been absent when he'd entered the Wizarding World. Just as Knockturn Alley had hags trying to sell people ingredients for dark magic, Diagon Alley had witches dressed in brightly colored clothes, sparkling with adornments as they pedaled candies, small toys, charmed crystals, potions, perfumes, jewelry...there were lone figures carrying trays and carts laden with wares as far as the eye could see. Every shop front looked either freshly painted or varnished, the windows on the right side of the street glittering in the sunlight. Patrons wandered in and out of stores regularly, most of them walking in a leisurely stroll. He had never seen the street look so clean nor any crowd of witches and wizards look so innocent and healthy.

Stepping forward in honest wonderment, he oriented himself slightly as he took note of Quality Quidditch Supplies standing a ways down the street on his left, a few small figures gathered before the window front, no doubt simply gaping up at the latest broom model displayed there. Striding forward at a slow pace, he eyed the bright display of Wizarding commerce as a tourist might, which he was then pleased he'd decided to appear as. Keeping in mind his invisible companion, he wended his way through the crowd as quickly as his curiosity would allow. Their destination was a third of the way up the whole of the alley, in sight of Gringotts; a Hall of Public Records, storing ages of priceless information right beside stacks of useless trivia, such as who paid what in taxes each year and whether the press announcing a Ministerial candidate's preferred color of underclothing had helped or hurt their campaign.

Harry came upon the green limestone building, barely greater in size than the front of the Leaky Cauldron, and approached the tall wooden doors with a minimum of caution. A Ministry guard stood beside them looking bored, barely sparing him a glance as he went in. The wide hall he stepped into had wooden paneling along the walls and a polished patterned wood floor. There were no doors on either wall, so he followed the hall straight ahead until coming upon a stairwell going down to the basement level. Downstairs, there was a cavernous room of doored bookshelves and scrolleries, so that there was not a wall or window in sight. Bypassing the first-timer's mistake of wandering aimlessly until hyperventilating, he glanced around to ensure that no one was looking and then took a right, left, right, left, left and so on until reaching an enormous card catalogue set before a line of windows.

"It should be safe now," he murmured, not actually sure if Dobby was even still at his side anymore. The elf gradually faded back into view and stepped forward to begin helping in their fact-checking.

"Dobby will be taking birth and death records, Harry Plunkett."

"Right, then I'll get started on Hogwarts history."

They went to the appropriate card drawers and then called the titles they required as they touched the book or scroll's card. One fat tome and several scrolls flew to Dobby, covering the passed one hundred and seventy-three years of wizarding fruition. Harry called to himself two books of historical record and four scrolls detailing the more recent happenings at Hogwarts. Walking to a nearby table, they set down their loads and dropped into the hard wood chairs to get started.

They were first confirming that everyone of importance was in fact still alive and on the expected track in the game. If one ancestor forwent a bad match in matrimony or wandered around on the wrong full moon hundreds of years ago, the result could be several missing friends and allies - or more fortuitously, enemies. Next was the task of comparing the histories of both magical worlds, from culture to laws and political motions. Having a Wizengamot which voted a different way than their own would tend to or restrictions placed on magical creatures such as Buckbeak or non-wizard magical beings such as Dobby were differences they wanted and perhaps needed to become aware of as soon as possible.

"All fathers is being accounted for, Harry Plunkett." 'Fathers' being the Marauders.

Harry gave a small smile and nodded, relieved. He already knew that Albus Dumbledore, Hagrid and Mad-Eye were alive and Lily Evans, being muggleborn, would have to be found in Hogwarts' school reports, as her birth would not have been recorded but her entrance into the magical world would have been. He went back to speed-reading through a familiar accounting of the founding of Hogwarts.

After half an hour, Dobby had reported that all members of the Order were living, including Severus Snape, who'd been born on the same day in January as he had been in their old world. Death Eater Walden Macnair had, so unfortunately, died in childhood. The only other missing person of note was Susan Bones' father and uncle, as Amelia Bones was an only child in this world. Harry frowned at an accounting of the process of electing a new Headmaster as he remembered Susan, a valuable member of Dumbledore's Army and later the Order of the Phoenix, who now would never be. There was also the question of how Madame Bones had been effected by the change, whether her politics and conviction were the same in a world where she had never lost family to the Dark Lord and likely never would.

Harry's own findings on Hogwarts history were satisfactory, with the only thing that stood out being a failed attempt on the part of an eighteenth century headmaster to start dances representing each house for the students to perform. It had apparently resulted in a scandalous mutiny and from the animated pictures accompanying the article, he could understand why. Carrying on with current records, he began a search for his mother and other significant muggleborns as Dobby returned from the card catalogue and cracked open a newly summoned law book to check for inconsistencies in magical creature control and regulation. Making a pleased noise in his throat when he found his mum, he went on down the list of registered students, then onto the accomplished ones, until he had satisfied all curiosity in the matter of who he could expect what from if things went according to plan and he managed to get a spot on Hogwarts' staff. He went on to another document on just that, positions and average salaries, humming a bit at the extra class, Musical Magic. Beneath each course name and description was the name of the current professor, a brief background on them and beneath that their annual income. He bit his lip at the Defense salary, as it was significantly lower than what he'd been allotted by his own contract.

"All the positions are filled by the right people," he said in a low whisper, "and I think the Board of Governors was overpaying me. I mean, more than I already thought they were."

"Harry Plunkett is a valuable source of information."

_Meaning, of course the Hero of the Wizarding World, He Who Kicked Voldemort's Ass, would get a higher salary as Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. It was the unspoken school policy, even before I graduated, that the best defense against the dark was to hide behind Harry Potter, the Professional Human Shield, because he wouldn't go down - or as Rita Skeeter had put it in that unauthorized biography, I 'would not yield in the face of hell.'_

Once finished with his assessment of Hogwarts, Harry carried his research materials back to the card catalogue and slipped each through a slotted box at the top, which then read their magical signatures and sent them floating off through an opening on the other side of the box, flying over Harry's head as they went back to the shelves they'd been called from. _Pity the poor sod who stands in their way..._ Calling a book on trade and vending, he caught it in one hand and went back to the dark wood table. The presence of street vendors had him curious and verifying the classes and legality of trading certain items was a matter of some importance, if things went according to plan over the next two months.

"Hippogriffs is having to be kept disillusioned in areas of muggle interest, at all times," Dobby spoke up, not whispering at all as this was actually a good reason for the two of them to be pawing through public records after just having gotten to Diagon Alley, instead of gawping into all the store windows as might be expected. "Notice-not and Muggle Repelling charms are to be applied in wizarding areas bordering muggles. No shielding is required in places where a wizard could not reasonably expect and muggle to be able to observe."

Harry nodded, eyes narrowed in thought but a small smile quirking his lips. It sounded much better than their old world's general policy of, 'keep them disillusioned at all hours of every day, no matter where,' which was widely ignored by most hippogriff owners as it was agitating to apply an unnecessary charm every twenty-four hours without fail. "Suppose the sky counts, then?"

Dobby looked over the page rapidly then looked up with a small frown. "It does not say. Dobby would think so. Perhaps it is a matter of what sky we is flying in."

He snorted slightly and nodded, thinking of the lazy policies still held by wizards when it came to discretion while flying. Wizards seemed incapable of understanding that aerospace no longer belonged exclusively to them and the birds and dragons. While newer generations tittered on about how they'd seen or been chased by muggle flying machines, the elder ones still behaved as though the only concern was whether a flyer was visible from the ground; they likely wouldn't even know what to call an aero plane, for all the thought they afforded them.

They settled back down in the quiet of the records hall, sifting through their books and occasionally swapping them. After a few hours, they returned the last of their materials and watched the books fly off in all directions. Harry stretched toward the ceiling and gave a contented sigh as Dobby continued alternately slapping his wrists and elbows, "To gets the feeling back in them." Both of them were quite relieved that they could walk back out of the building without the fear of being arrested for some strange reason, like wearing red in October or having too many hats on at once.

Harry gave Dobby a rueful smile. "Still think I need a babysitter?"

Giving a reproachful look, the elf replied, "Dobby only wants to know that Harry Plunkett is safe. It is being what Dobby is here for."

"I thought Dobby was here because he's my _friend_."

Rolling his eyes, Dobby nodded and waved a hand in the air, gesticulating, 'of course, that goes without saying.' "If Harry Plunkett is wanting to run off, Dobby is not stopping him. Dobby thinks it is tempting fate for Harry Plunkett to walk around without a proper wand, even if this should be a peaceful day, but Dobby is not going to stop him."

Harry bit his lip as he thought that over. "That means you're going to follow me all the way to Ollivander's, whether I want you to or not, right?"

"It is being Dobby's privileged duty."

"All right then," he agreed with a fond smile, "at least you've gotten better at stealth than you were when we first met."

"Harry's muggles never noticed Dobby!" the elf argued indignantly.

Harry flinched at the phrase 'Harry's muggles' being shouted in a squeaky voice in the quiet hall of the archives. _So much for caution..._ Dobby looked first confused by his wizard's expression and then horrified by his own slip. His little hands flew to his mouth and he peered at Harry with wide, panic-stricken eyes. "_I_ noticed," Harry said calmly, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. "That's all it takes to count, since you were supposed to be hiding from me, too." He swallowed inaudibly as he imagined that anyone listening in would find that more bewildering than incriminating.

"If Harry Plunkett wishes to go alone," the elf said in a small voice, "Dobby is understanding."

"No," he returned is just as low a tone, "you're right, we shouldn't take unnecessary risks. Besides," he added as he mentally kicked himself, "I do always feel better knowing you've got my back."

After bouncing a bit at the sentimental compliment, Dobby worked out with his wizard that he would follow him invisibly and then they would split up at Ollivander's to go run their separate errands in the Alley. Harry was pleased with the arrangement, though he couldn't quite understand why Dobby still felt the need to hide, after just having confirmed that they should both be safe in public, according to ministerial law.

They left the records hall with Dobby disillusioned again and Harry once more breathed deep the unusual air of success which permeated the Alley. He strolled further down the street towards where he knew the wandmaker's shop would stand, making note of other shops he may want to stop in on later.

When he reached the shop front, he paused and waited for some sort of sign that Dobby was there and leaving. He felt a small hand slip into his own and give it a light squeeze, before it was withdrawn. Nodding to himself over nerves and the silent supportive goodbye of his companion, he grasped the door handle and entered the oldest shop in Diagon Alley. Walking into Ollivander's, he felt a thrill run through him as he looked forward to holding his wand again. His spare was adequate but nothing compared to the wand which had chosen him when he'd first entered the wizarding world.

Ollivander came out to the front of the shop slowly, looking vaguely bemused. "Ah, a visitor," he declared with a small smile.

"A customer," Harry corrected, feeling not at all inclined towards indulging the man's game of superiority. He knew that a good wandmaker was by necessity brilliant and intuitive but it didn't quell the spark of annoyance he felt from their lofty nature.

"Yes, yes of course." He looked him up and down appraisingly. "A relative of the Potters, perhaps?" He squinted as he walked forwards, as though trying to read fine print on Harry's face. "I believe...some Black blood, as well? You've some resemblance to fair Dorea Potter, née Black. And that nose...why, that's a MacMillan nose if I've ever seen one. I must say, you look quite like James Potter, a young lad who got his first wand here just over two years ago." He stopped his slow stride directly in front of Harry, giving him a smug look as he gazed through him.

Harry was tempted to show just how bristled he felt but held back, knowing that walking out of the store with his true wand would mean a report to Dumbledore and that if ever there was a time when he couldn't break character, this was it. He forced a smile, polite but strained, and felt thankful once more that his back-story allowed for some paranoia and defensiveness regarding his identity. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ollivander? I've never heard of the Potters or those other families. I'm Harry Plunkett," he said as he offered a hand, "I've just arrived from a bit of travel and my wand's been broken. I've been using a spare but it's just not the same. I was hoping you could fit me for a new one?"

"Yes," he said quietly as he seemed to stare off into space, "yes, lad, of course. Plunkett, you say? I suppose you _wouldn't_ be of the Black clan then." He snapped his fingers and a measuring tape began invading Harry's personal space in progressively more ridiculous fashions. "For your information, young man, Black is a very old family name, belonging to pureblood wizards of great wealth and repute. The Potters and MacMillans are of equal esteem," he added absently, as he walked to a shelf and grabbed a box off of it. Harry held back a snort, knowing the difference in tones between respectful and off-handed was due to the Light reputation of the latter two families. He held out his hand to try the wand with a carefully affixed curious expression, repressing all of his old aggression towards the older man for being so 'creepy,' which during the war had caused Harry to speculate as to whether or not he'd been a spy for the Dark. "Phoenix and maple, give it a wave." He twitched it just a bit before it was snatched from his fingers. Narrowing his eyes at the familiar rudeness, he did his best to ignore inner cries of 'CONSTANT VIGILANCE,' which were accompanied by reminders that it had never been proven, certainly not to his nor Mad-Eye's satisfaction, that Ollivander was on their side in the war. Personally, Harry thought the man had meant to be on the winning side, whichever it had turned out to be.

"Dragon heartstring and ash, ten and a half inches." He waved it in half an arc before it too was snatched away and he heard, "Phoenix and rosewood, eleven and a quarter inches, swishy." He swished it, Ollivander snatched it and they went on that way for the longest time until Harry was starting to think he really would have to try every wand in the shop. He started feeling tempted to tell the man the specifications of the wand he'd 'broken,' if only that wouldn't be too _curious_ for the wandmaker to contemplate, when the most unusual combinations started getting called out. "Occlamy feather and willow, ten and three quarter inches," he announced proudly before adding, "a special project but you're proving a tricky customer." This felt intimately familiar to his hand but emitted no sparks and so was added to the mountain of tried and failed wands. "Hippogriff feather and birch, extra swishy." Harry closed his eyes briefly as he felt a warm rush but when he swished, not a spark did fly.

Ollivander frowned slightly and went into the back again, coming out to the front with a new armful of boxes. "Diricrawl feather and pine, excellent for banishing." It sparked when Harry grasped it but at the wrong end and he dropped it as it burned his hand slightly. With a sheepish smile at his customer's befuddled glare, the shopkeeper nudged the offending wand away with his foot and said, "Sorry about that, they can get feisty if they're let be too long. Fwooper feather and walnut, good for memory charms."

Taking this new wand more cautiously, Harry twitched an eyebrow as he suddenly heard the Hogwarts school song being sung in a shrill voice to a Latin beat inside his head. He handed it back with a quirk of the lips. "I don't think so."

"Hair of a virgin veela and apple," he was offered in return.

Feeling the effects of this new wand, he handed it back without waving it. "I don't even want to know what that would be good for," he said, vaguely disturbed.

Unruffled by the comment on his wand, Ollivander held out, "Viper's tongue and yew, vicious in a duel."

"Was that supposed to rhyme?" Harry asked in a politely curious tone. He was just starting to wonder how much he could get away with socially, under the premise that Harry Plunkett was an innocent but curious young man. Taking the wand which somewhat resembled Voldemort's, he waved it half-heartedly and got an unexpected response. He listened in growing horror as the wand spoke to him in the tongue of the snake Ollivander had bound within it, crying and screaming of revenge, agony, fear. _His last thoughts,_ he realized, _of course it would be good for dueling, it is harnessing the power of a cornered and injured animal. Dangerous,_ he grasped the wood as the wand began calming slightly, _because it's terrified and desperate._ Looking at Ollivander who stood before him with a somewhat hopeful expression, he thought he had his answer of whether the man was truly Light or Dark and felt a strong desire to hex him with the wand he'd just been handed. Setting it aside deliberately, he said in a carefully controlled voice, "It doesn't quite fit but I think I'd like it, as a spare." He almost said, 'It speaks to me,' but thought that might be giving too much away to the sharp man.

"Of course," he said reluctantly, "but it is twice the price for a wand that has not chosen you."

"What's that then?"

"Eight Galleons."

"That's fine. Shall we keep going?" Really, he thought he'd rather just leave and sick up somewhere and it must have shown on his face, for Ollivander nodded and darted away again, looking as though he'd just realized something important about Harry.

He came back with several more boxes and handed the first wand over saying, "Abraxan hair and dogwood, eight and three quarter inches, good for charms." A wave to no results. "Griffin feather and cedar, nine and a half inches, excellent for defensive and protective magic."

He felt a soothing of his nerves as he grasped this one, erasing the agitation and hurt from having handled the speaking wand before. Holding it in his right hand in a comfortable grasp, warmth filled his chest which reminded him of Hogwarts and Mrs. Weasley. Waving it in a broad arc, he was unsurprised to see a miniature light show as red, silver and gold sparking streams of magic cascaded from the tip into the air. A moment of perfect contentment swept over him as his magic finally felt linked and settled in its communication with the outside world. It wasn't until he remembered that somehow, this was not his wand, _but Merlin it was singing to him and_ _- still somehow not his, his phoenix and holly..._looking over at Ollivander with the pleased smile which had come to his face a moment before, Harry said, "I guess it's a match then," knowing that he could hardly request further searching for his first wand after the display he and the griffin and cedar wand had just put on for the man.

He paid the man his twelve Galleons while under the liquid silver gaze he'd started to resent as a child, and then thankfully left without any mutterings of 'curious,' though he could swear the wandmaker had been thinking it at him. Walking with his new griffin feather wand in his outer pocket and his boxed 'spare,' which he had half a mind to bury somewhere, in his inner pocket, Harry headed in the direction of an Apothecary's he'd passed earlier, wanting to procure the cleaning solutions required for his room at the Hog's Head as well as a proper potions kit.

**

* * *

**

The wonderful thing about muggleborns, though Dobby knew his wizard wasn't really one, was that they typically could not understand the magical world's taboos. Magic had just been dumped in Harry Potter's lap out of the blue and compared to turning desks into pigs or jumping into a lit fireplace to, as Harry had explained to him once, travel like Santa Claus, a powerful house elf or beings with mixed heritage hardly ranked on his wizard's idea of odd, since initially all of the Wizarding World had been odd to Harry Potter. Thus his wizard, though long ago greatly impressed, thought nothing of an elf turning invisible or wielding more unaided offensive magic than the average wizard could produce. In fact, Dobby had been in more than one situation with Harry Potter where it had become apparent that the young wizard was not even perturbed by the idea that Dobby could not only do things he could not, but might actually have more raw magical energy. If he did not know that seeing him cry upset his wizard, Dobby could have done so many times over, for the sheer joy at the blessing he'd found when he stumbled upon his ex-master planning against the Boy Who Lived so many years ago. Most wizards would look upon Dobby's strength as an insult or threat, an asset in need of control...it was one of the reasons he needed to exercise his power.

In his home world, Diagon Alley was used to him well enough that the shopkeeps recognized him as belonging to Harry Potter, their savior. Dobby well-remembered his initial wake-up to the reality of the magical world, when he had first been freed and attempted to join it. At least in Hogsmeade, his Hogsmeade, nearly everyone had come to know him by sight and name and they knew he was the Free House Elf who helped in the war, the one who still insisted on taking care of Harry Potter, the wizard who had befriended him as a child. Being known and understood had allowed him to live the life he loved, going where he pleased and being treated with respect, as his wizard had vehemently told him he _deserved_ to be. This new world's Diagon Alley had likely never met the likes of him before and he felt draped in the anxieties he'd faced as a newly free elf, approaching the great, frightening wizards and pleading for work, then for the right to spend his coins in their shops. Without the mastership of his magic he'd be back at square one; as it was he'd been reduced to simply making himself invisible as he escorted his wizard around the Alley, silent guardian to the young man, who eyed this new Diagon Alley as a child would the amusements in a toy store.

The bright, busy street was certainly impressive, some of the street displays looking like ones he'd have to revisit later. It was a lively show of commerce, oddly inviting. What he had tried to impress upon his wizard before they'd left was that they had not been invited here at all. This miniature wizarding metropolis had never met either of them and they didn't know it either. While expecting to be bitten by their new home had been a given for Dobby, he knew his wizard was too trusting, faithful and accustomed to the public knowing and accepting him, for it to ever occur to the gentle-hearted young fighter that the world had more teeth than an abacus could count and there were more possible dangers posed against them than Death Eaters, the Ministry and social awkwardness with their targets. Dobby could take a hit from anyone, except perhaps his wizard, though as Harry Potter had never struck him he didn't know more than that he couldn't bear the thought of it ever happening. Avoiding other people's anger was a difficult dance of courtesy, silence and anticipated services. If something went wrong and his young wizard found himself the recipient of blows, physical or otherwise, from an average citizen or worse, someone they meant to gain the trust of, like Hagrid sir or Headmaster Professor Dumbledore, it was difficult to imagine Harry Potter being anything but crushed by it. One misstep and they could easily come under a rain of fire; a single unpredicted error in the delicate balance of engendering good will and Dobby could easily see his wizard and the mission they shared meeting an early end in irreparable damage.

Seeing to Harry Potter was, as most of Hogsmeade knew in their old world, Dobby's life's purpose, so he wished the Gryffindor would cooperate a bit more. _Perhaps Harry Potter could learn to only argue against being safe once or twice a week, instead of twice-over every day we speak of it?_ As it was he continued down the Alley as agreed, as his instincts told him not to, knowing that following Harry Potter - or Harry Plunkett - against his will would cause more trouble than the possibility of danger warranted. He slipped into a small trinket shop when a wizard opened the door particularly wide and then ducked into an alcove of displays that looked a touch dusty. He was still under the disillusionment charm but revealed himself now, in his brief privacy, and took a few cleansing breaths as he prepared for his next bit of magic. If his wizard had been there, a comment about 'Fawnboots' would have been muttered at him, which Dobby gathered had something to do with muggle culture and someone named 'Wonderman' or something of the like.

With distraction spells cast around his cubby of dusty ware-laden shelves, Dobby held his arms out in front of him and began looking himself over intently. The short pointed nails in his rough slim fingers, the leathery texture of the back of his hands which reminded him of a miscolored newt, his callused palms and soft inner wrists. The maroon sweater he was wearing, baggy and warm, just a touch itchy and the monogrammed 'R' on the front always making him imagine that it smelled a bit like Harry Potter's Wheezy, like freshly baked biscuits and the dewy lawns of spring. His small strong feet, encased in dirt-resistant green socks which drooped down around his bony ankles. Thin legs, strong in muscle but frail in bone. Closing his eyes, he felt his chest rise and fall with his breaths and went on to becoming aware of his four other senses; the scent of old blackening polish, the sound of rustling in the shop with a buzz of pleasant chatter from the street, the taste in his mouth of the air around him and his breakfast of earlier in the day and as he reopened his large round eyes, the shimmery sight of magic dancing over everything around him.

Bracing himself with all of his being in mind, he thought clearly of his favorite guise and applied a rather complicated glamour upon himself, one which he wasn't sure a wizard could do. It bound his physical self within the image of a short-statured wizard with obvious goblin heritage, not unlike Professor Filius Flitwick. Height was the only thing that remained the same as he found his limbs bulge with artificial weight and his face twist into the mold demanded by the facial structure of his subject. His ears felt pinched and as his stomach expanded and his clothing tightened to fit the projection of informal wizarding robes, he felt the familiar sensation of getting his waist squeezed uncomfortably by the pressure of his temporary shell. Reaching a seemingly well-manicured hand up to his face, he ran his fingers over his features to assure himself that no mishaps had occurred. He pulled forward a lock of dark red hair that felt like that of a horse's tail and eyed it appraisingly. Everything seemed to look and feel the way it always had when he'd gotten this form correct, so he removed his distraction charms and strode into the open, pausing briefly before an antique dressing mirror and giving himself a nod of approval.

He went back out into the street under his disguise and boldly met the eyes of anyone who looked at him reprovingly. Assertiveness was the only option for a half-breed wizard, if he didn't want to be scorned. Aside from wanting respect from humans, there was also the possibility of being discovered if he was too shifty-looking. Whether it was in the law books or not, no wizard or witch would take kindly to finding a House Elf impersonating a member of their society.

As he strode towards Flourish and Blotts he thought once more of _his_ wizard, who would simply watch elven magic with wondering eyes and a wistful smile.

* * *

The little apothecary's shop had turned out to be an earlier generation of Mr. Mulpepper's, as Harry had just gotten to meet the man's grandfather, father and younger self. He never would have imagined that the solitary entrepreneur had come from such family-oriented roots. While Mister Jarvis Mulpepper had assembled a professional potions kit for Harry, sixty galleons, and Mister Byron Mulpepper had retrieved his requested cleaning potions, five galleons, four sickles and two knuts, young Mister Cornelius Mulpepper had stood at the counter making small talk while restraining two siblings who weren't yet old enough for Hogwarts, a sister under one hand and a brother beneath the other, which had just been priceless to Harry, who was accustomed to dealing with a good-natured but rather stern version of the man. It had occurred to him as he'd heard Cornelius mention more children in his family than the Weasleys had once boasted, that he hadn't ever thought of researching the Mulpeppers in his own world and so didn't know whether they were on track or what would become of them all, with the exception of the future - or past, for Harry - proprietor. As he walked in the direction of Quality Quidditch Supplies, he continued his unfair cursing of himself for being so regrettably unprepared, recounting a number of other wizards and witches whose histories he had no knowledge of. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a window displaying broomsticks and stumbled to a stop. The sign outside the store read 'Traveler's Trove.' Stepping closer, he saw a rolled-up rug displayed above a broom he recognized as an Oakshaft79. It took him a moment to recall that flying carpets were still perfectly legal in seventy-three, and so that was likely just what he was looking at. He fully intended to hunt down a Nimbus 1001, released two years prior and still the best on the market, yet he found his feet taking him into the shop displaying an almost hundred year old broom, the business looking antique itself, as though he should see a sign declaring it to have been established some time 'BC,' like Ollivander's.

He blamed curiosity for luring him in, guiding him through displays of brooms he'd only read about and others he hadn't ever seen in such fine condition. A slightly battered Moontrimmer for twelve galleons, a Silver Arrow in fine shape that made his stomach flip at twenty-seven galleons. Quidditch nut he may be but flying was Harry's passion, not the sport that revolved around it. Seeing what were arguably the Nimbus line's parents, made so long before the 2000 model's time and laying so close to his own reach was near making him dizzy. He imagined it was likely what Dobby seemed to go through every time the elf stepped into an art museum.

"May I help you?"

He looked up, startled. A short witch in a pale yellow gown stood at the counter on the other side of the shop, beside an expensive-looking polished wood trunk. Her head was quirked to the side in curiosity, so that curls of her hair hung out from where it had been pinned up and dangled in the air. He shook his head a bit to clear off his broomstick-induced fog and then immediately thought to himself that the shopkeeper reminded him of a frazzled owl in appearance, like Errol after he'd been dipped in porridge. Looking about the room more thoroughly, he finally noticed that he was in fact surrounded by more than just tools for flying. Trunks of all sizes and qualities, backpacks, tents, portable kitchens and a small selection of books which ranged from atlases to animal track identification guides. The simply titled 'Let's Not Get Killed Just Yet' had him raising an eyebrow in amusement and remembrance of Mad-Eye's similar preference of 'Pay Attention or Lose A Buttock' over the title he'd been pressed into releasing his own survival guide under, 'Constant Vigilance! A Realistic Guide on Personal Safety.' After having memorized his mentor's words on caution, he didn't think any other volume could lend to his survivalist paranoia. _Although I haven't heard the man himself scream in my ears for a few years. That'll do me a world of good the first time it happens. Merlin, but I've missed the old - _

"Hem hem," sounded from the back of the shop where the little witch was sending him an impatient look.

Uncomfortably reminded of Umbridge, Harry pasted on a smile that looked as fake as it felt and shook his head, hoping he seemed more shy than irritated. "Sorry, miss. I've only come in to look about." She gave a 'hm' and then thankfully went back to her work in a ledger, but she kept darting her eyes toward him as though expecting him to steal something. Harry held back a grimace as he wondered whether he really should have just risked the oozing blood-stained bathroom back at the Hog's Head and freshened up better that morning.

Trying to ignore how much he felt as though he'd just stepped under his old muggle neighbors' beady gazes, he wandered over to the carpets out of curiosity. Each had their origins, size, the specifications allotted to them by their enchantments and a small copy of the pattern they bore on a card sitting before them. None of them had prices and he thought it was likely the way the Firebolt had been when it came out - if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.

"Excuse me," he asked anyway, "but what are the least and most expensive types of flying carpet? I've never shopped for one before."

"The Arabian Knight 40 is the least expensive at seventy-five galleons, it carries one and reaches up to forty miles per hour. The Sultan 12 is the most expensive, six thousand galleons, it seats up to eight, goes from zero to eighty in ten seconds, can reach speeds as high as one hundred twelve miles per hour given the right air currents and comes with all available safety measures."

He felt his fingers twitch a bit. The Sultan 12 was temptingly close to the speed of a Firebolt. Yet buying the best was out of the question at such a price and he didn't actually need a flying carpet anyway, even if it did sound fun. He tried not to pout as he turned back to look at the brooms and it helped as he recalled that whatever sucker did pay so much for a silly floating rug would be in for a rude awakening when they were outlawed in the eighties. _Or is that 'if they're outlawed?'_

Letting his eyes run over the Silver Arrow before him with something unabashedly like love helped him to forget the unattainable carpet rather quickly. He didn't even notice as the agitating witch walked over and stood beside him with a less aggressive manner than she'd displayed earlier.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Mister Jewkes really knew what he was doing."

"Yes, my old flying instructor was wild about them. I've never seen one in such good shape before."

"Hm."

He sighed quietly as he realized that he wasn't going to get his peace back. Looking at the other brooms without much hope, he asked, "I don't suppose you have a Nimbus, do you?"

She tsked. "Contrary to popular opinion, this is _not_ an antique shop." She went back behind the counter and then opened a door behind it and began rummaging, then returned a moment later with a broom held in each hand. Walking them out, she set each on an empty rack and then placed their information cards before them. "They sell rather fast, it's a bit hard to keep them on the shelves," she explained in a prim tone.

He nodded distractedly as he appraised the two brooms, from their slim straight bristles to the golden lettering of their handles. He'd been told that his father had flown a Nimbus 1001 all his life and it gave him some sense of satisfaction that this was the same broom he was choosing for himself, even at eighty galleons. He did silently bemoan the loss of the coins, as he was no longer made of gold even in a figurative sense, yet felt that the independence and thrill were worth the cost. "I won't always be traveling by broom. Do you have broomcases?"

"Of course. Couldn't sell something like a Nimbus and expect people to just haul them around. Why, just think of the potential bristle damage! Never mind that the finish could be scratched..." she continued muttering to herself as she once more went to the backroom, returning this time with several long and slender cases and laying them all across the counter. She pointed to each and explained their attributes along with their prices and Harry picked out a Welsh Green dragon hide encasement for twelve galleons, this time actually making a bit of a face as he acknowledged the price. Soon enough, he knew he'd be dipping into the six thousand he had set aside.

"And the broom?" she drolly asked.

He nodded and went back to the display racks, retrieving the Nimbus 1001 and bringing it back to the somewhat gobsmacked witch, who apparently hadn't expected he could afford such a thing. He paid for them in short order and as he left he said, "Thank you miss-"

"_Mrs._," she interrupted in whatever imitation of prissy involved baring teeth, "It's Mrs.!"

"Ah, yes, sorry. Mrs...?"

"_Skeeter_."

He goggled at her a few seconds and then very eloquently said, "Oh, er, hum, yes, of course. Mrs. Skeeter. Good day then." He backed away, earning an odd look, then turned and all but fled. Once safely out of earshot of the woman, he began muttering to himself, "No bleeding wonder...like nails on a chalkboard...Merlin, the hair, I should have known..."

**

* * *

**

From his list of books to replace, Dobby had only purchased 'A Charmed Home,' which Mrs.Weasley had gifted his wizard with after Harry Potter had moved into his own house in Hogsmeade. If any domicile in the wizarding world needed charming, Dobby was betting it was the Hog's Head. Right then, he sat upon the bed in his and his wizard's room, looking intently at a brown leather brief case and more specifically, the plain gold plate where a name was to be inscribed. Placing a thumb at the left end, he pressed down hard as he ran it over the polished gold and then sat back in satisfaction as he observed his own name in script. Learning to read had been worthwhile but he still found writing things out by hand to be too boring and difficult to bother with, when he could just magic things into writing instead.

He gave a content sigh and relaxed as he enjoyed being away from the crowds of strangers and back to where his wizard had decided to settle for the next few weeks. He'd bought new art supplies for himself, as well as some decent parchment and inks for his wizard's map making, with the money he'd made from selling most of his things under the guise of a wizard before leaving his old world. Since he hadn't been able to take them, 'liquidating his assets,' as he'd once heard the ex-evil, ex-Death Eater, ex-master Draco Malfoy say, had seemed the best choice. Aside from the portraits which could not be replaced, the only thing he still felt he was lacking was a replacement camera and that could certainly wait. Really, compared to being a pancake or imprisoned, he was doing very well and quite happy with it.

Harry Potter walked through the door then with a grin, a black dragonhide briefcase bearing a silver plate with just his initials engraved upon it and a paper bag in one hand and a green dragonhide case for what could only be a broom in the other. "Got my wand," he proudly announced. The wizard then proceeded to fill Dobby in on his day in Diagon. "I've just spoken to Aberforth," he added a moment after he'd finished, "I've paid him for the next three weeks, so it's set that we'll have a place to stay and be in Hogsmeade for Halloween."

"Good, Dobby was worrying we might be going to more trouble than we should," he said with a gesture towards the paper bag containing cleaning potions.

Harry pulled a face at the green splat of...whatever it was that had gotten stuck in the rug in their room. "I think I'd actually be disappointed in myself if I left something like..._this_, behind for someone else to deal with anyway."

Dobby heaved a tired sigh and nodded. "So, we is to be getting started?"

"Nah," Harry said in his laziest tone, "it can wait 'til morning." Dobby stared at him in disbelief and he grinned. "It's already after dark and we have had a long day..."

"If Harry Plunkett is tired Dobby can be-"

"No, I don't want you having to mess about with this stuff by yourself. Anyway, I'm sure you're tired too."

Dobby frowned in confusion. "Harry Plunkett is knowing very well that House Elves is having more energy than Wizards. Dobby is not tired."

Beginning to bounce on his heels, his grin widened. "Great! Because you know, Buckbeak's had a long and boring day, we've had a long and stressful day and hey," he said enthusiastically, "look at this!" He held out the slim green case with a toothy smile and Dobby was reminded of a very little Draco Malfoy who had gotten into the cookie dough once. "I've got a new broom!"

Dobby giggled loudly at the picture his wizard made but nodded and stood up on the bed and hopped down just the same. Harry deposited his things on the bed next to Dobby's purchases and shed his Nimbus 1001 of its protection. Together they went downstairs, taking the route to the side door that went to the yard. In the barn, Buckbeak was falling asleep on his feet but looking none too happy about it and when he noticed the pair walking towards his stall, he squawked loudly, as though asking, 'and where have _you_ been?'

"Sorry Beaky, we've had errands to run. Lots of horrible boring stuff," Harry quietly assured the hippogriff. "Want to come out for a fly?" The hippogriff stamped his feet and let out a grunting snort in the affirmative. Guiding him out of the stall and barn, Harry and Dobby stopped in the side yard and eyed their creature friend hesitantly. "How 'bout a game, Beaky? I've gotten a new broom today but I haven't broken it in yet." Ignoring the indignant look Buckbeak was giving him at the sight of his silly new flying stick, Harry continued, "Why don't we see who will be keeping up with who?"

Bristling at the challenge, the hippogriff almost didn't notice Dobby's polite attempts to gain his attention.

"Buckbeak? Beaky? Dobby would be honored to be flying with Beaky, as Dobby would never go near a broomstick." The elf watched as Buckbeak puffed up with pride and then he bowed to the creature with the utmost respect, a gesture which was graciously returned.

As the elf climbed upon the hippogriff's back, Harry mounted his broomstick. He met eyes with both of his companions for a moment, then sprang from the ground at the same time, gaining altitude as they came to the barrier of the Hog's Head's property and taking off above roof-level by the time they'd crossed the street. By the end of the block, they were officially in the sky and safely circling around for more height. Dobby was laughing and clinging on to Buckbeak with all his strength, as the hippogriff rolled over in midair, surging forward and then doing a loop-de-loop to show off his prowess over the ridiculous twig Harry was using.

As Harry got lost in the joy of flying and tested the Nimbus' limits and Dobby and Buckbeak followed suit, testing the laws of physics, the three became unaware of anything but the crisp clean air of autumn and the exhilaration of the heights they were courting. Oblivious even to the few Hogsmeadians who were looking up at the sky with the suspicion that it wasn't just the wind whooping above them, they certainly wouldn't have guessed that they were also presenting quite a show of moonlit aerial acrobatics for Hogwarts, some of whose students were gawping through their brass telescopes.


	4. Earning Power

Dragon Effect

Story Summary: Harry has lived with an obsessive mania revolving around 'what-ifs' and 'could haves.' This has led him to eventually apply his theories to real life and risk a journey to a younger Earth which seems to have evolved in his world's footsteps. At twenty-five, he arrives in his new world's year of 1973, where he intends to make waves in a very calculated fashion. He seeks out familiar people with the aim of forming bonds that will literally change the world.

Author Note: I have a dozen excuses for how long it's taken to get this chapter up and why it's much shorter than I originally intended. Fortunately I try to avoid making excuses whenever my memory serves me well enough to inform me that it's a terrible habit to indulge in.

WARNINGS: Neville's an angry boy, Draco's borderline alcoholic and Abe needs lessons in proper hygienic protocol.

Chapter 4: Earning Power

As his second year class scurried out the door, Neville couldn't even be bothered to keep the scowl off from his face. _They act as though I'm as bad as Snape used to be. Though, to be fair, I haven't been exactly nice to them. It would help if they'd all stop whining that they want their Professor Potter, and where is he really, and he doesn't do the lessons that way, and he never makes us do this, and why can't we go outside? Nervier Hufflepuffs than Hogwarts had when I was in school..._

Auror Neville Longbottom had taken a two week leave from his duties and he was using it to fill in as Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts, since Headmistress McGonagall was being driven spare by the unexpected absence of Professor Potter. It was apparently going to be a permanent absence, so he hoped she found someone to replace him soon, as _he_ certainly wasn't going to deal with Harry's ex-students for the rest of the year. They were largely wide-eyed and either heart-broken or disbelieving; _all_ of them were endlessly questioning and they asked the same things he kept wondering himself, providing an unpleasant echo of the thoughts he was trying to avoid in order to maintain professionalism. He hadn't believed it when he'd gotten a letter from one of his closest friends, saying that he'd decided to skip out on the world and had already gone and done it, _so there_. Standing in Harry's house, after pawing through all his books and papers, tearing open every drawer and even trying _'Accio Secret Plans,'_ he'd stared around dumbly as his anger started to build over the conviction that it was all stoppable, or a joke. _Harry was gone_ and Neville wasn't at _all_ sorry about the damage he'd caused in that great empty house, in his search or after he'd given up on finding something, _anything_ that would say in some measure of legibility, 'this is how to get your friend back.'

_'Please try to respect my wishes, even if you can't understand them,'_ the damned letter had said. Oh, he _understood_, of course. People had been lost, lives had been mangled and perhaps no one knew the allure of 'what ifs' better than Neville himself, with his parents aging in a mental ward. He understood Harry, and part of him was even hoping that, if his idiotic plan worked, some Alice and Frank Longbottom somewhere were going to live happy and normal lives; it just didn't stop him from also _hating_ him, and wanting to _strangle_ him, because he'd _run away_ and left all his friends with bloody _letters_.

He couldn't grasp how _Harry Potter_, a person he'd idolized as a young man, had _let_ himself retreat to cower in some imaginary corner of existence. During the war with Voldemort, the Boy Who Lived had been a blaze of fire and glory. Neville had gladly rallied behind him with pride. Now, the part of him that had been forged by their friendship nearly burned in shame and his nails dug into his palms as he recalled the rhetoric Luna had quoted at him when he'd confronted her about knowing of Harry's plans ahead of everyone else. It had been a nasty fight and when she'd tried to placate him by parroting something Harry had told Dumbledore's Army during the war, he'd lost it. If and when she spoke to him again, it would probably be in an imaginary language.

_"So long as there are people here still loyal to him, he'll never be truly gone,"_ she had told him of Harry, as Harry had once told them all of Dumbledore, as Dumbledore had once told Harry of himself.

Harry had said it years ago to raise courage amongst the nervous teenagers who had stood before him, questioning how there could be a Dumbledore's Army with Dumbledore dead. Luna now repeated it as an endorsement of cowardice, sanctioning his acts based on the idea that Harry Potter could never truly leave them, could he?

He shut his eyes tight, willing the answer away. He couldn't see him anywhere, the days were counting down on his Gringotts will for the number of days he could be completely untraceable before the reallocation of his assets and there certainly wasn't any pale thin neck being strangled between his hands as he wished there could be.

Perhaps he'd been harsh with Luna but his life hadn't been made up of fantasies for years. Neville wasn't going to indulge in some childish game of closing his to see if he could find his missing friend inside his imagination and then make Harry real enough that he could pretend he'd never left. He'd spent too many years doing the same with his parents.

The door banged open.

He looked up, startled, as the fourth year Slytherins crashed into the room. Eleven of them, brilliant according to Harry. He watched as though from a distance as they settled down, then came back to earth as he saw the looks in the eyes of a cluster of them. Four boys and a girl, and he recognized them as the ones Harry liked to brag and laugh about. His _favorite_ students. As he met their gazes, he felt vindication flood him. They were furious, while every other student he'd seen thus far was merely disgruntled or helpless or couldn't care in the least in regards to the whole situation. All five of them were _seething_ and he just _knew_ it wasn't him or the school or the inconvenience of changing teachers that had gotten them ready to foam at the mouth like that; they were angry at _Harry_ and from the look of them, they were ready to tear him apart, if only he'd show up. The smallest of the boys flinched as he smiled at them. The tallest, Grant Nott, gave him a slight nod after a moment, understanding that they were in accord.

They all wanted a piece of Harry, either to beat or bury.

**

* * *

**

Harry jumped back as the red crusted...whatever it was...dropped from the ceiling of his en-suite bathroom and onto the floor. He supposed he could just leave it be but he really didn't like the idea of bathing under it. The floor was covered in a supposedly cleansing goop which he was supposed to use _Scourgify_ on in twenty more minutes and he grimaced at the mess being furthered. Dobby probably could have handled the ceiling with a thought but Harry had sent him out after the things attached to the tub had attacked the small elf, asking him to familiarize himself with this new Hogsmeade and note any differences so that corrections could be made on the map. That left the wizard alone with the 'green and blue throbby things' Dobby had been worried might eat them.

It turned out to be a valid concern, as they were flesh-eating slugs, attached to the bloodstains around the tub and walls, and so resistant to magical removal until they could be pried off of their food. Which he supposed sort of _explained_ all the bloodstains, too. _Remind me to never fall asleep in the bath here..._ He'd had his share of odd mornings but muggle-dueling with slugs for the right of territory over a bathroom was definitely going on the top twenty list. After their physical removal, he'd banished them with magic and done a mild exorcism spell on the bloodstains Dobby hadn't been able to handle the day before. Soon enough there was just residual slime around the edges...until he'd looked up.

Heaving a sigh, he sat down upon the newly cleaned carpet and resumed his random blastings of cleaning spells at the ceiling. Not for the first time since he'd dropped into his new world, he thought of his cozy clean Ravenclaw corridor in Hogwarts. Shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs of nostalgia, he turned to his priorities for the next few days. He wished he knew how to make certain all his guesses were right so as to prevent any of the great blunders which might occur if they weren't.

If History decided to repeat itself, the coming Halloween weekend would be a Hogsmeade weekend for Hogwarts students. It would be his first opportunity to see the thirteen year-old Marauders, Lily Evans and Severus Snape of his new world. There was going to be a celebration Saturday night, Halloween, which would be a village-wide revelry that seventh year students had been allowed to attend in his old world. Meeting future Death Eaters was going to be a given and he was quite looking forward to it.

By the time he'd finished cleaning and taken his bath, lunch was on the little wooden table waiting for him and Dobby. Walking out of the en-suite bathroom in black wool pants taken from the satchel Dobby had brought for him from their former residence in their former Hogsmeade, he looked around and saw that the elf was still missing. Frowning as he wondered what he had gotten up to, he consulted the map and found that Dobby was in the Fairfeathers' bakery, close to the two dots labeled 'Isabella' and 'Mathilda,' with another dot labeled 'Mattie' nearby. He bit his lip, half worried about Dobby and half curious as to whether the baby Mathilda was actually a Mathilda Junior. Setting the map down, he picked up his scarlet Weasley sweater from where he'd set it on the bed and slipped it over his head, then picked up a thick white cotton button-down shirt and slipped it over the sweater; it was a somewhat eccentric style of dress but it would work in his favor, holding him in people's memories better. Besides that, he'd started wearing Sirius' shirts over his own when he was eighteen and was hardly inclined to stop now. _And to think that when I left them at the house for the term, packed and ready to be dragged through dimensions with me, McGonagall said she was glad I was finally willing to let him go. Hah!_

He sat and ate quickly, just finishing his meal when Dobby popped into the room with a toothy grin on his face. "I guess they had your favorite rolls then?" he asked with a gesture to the map that lay on the bed.

"Oh, yes, they was having the sugared apricot cinnamon rolls Dobby is loving, but that is not all that is good. Guess what work Dobby is to be doing?" the elf asked as he bounced over to the table and set a brown paper bag upon it. "Guess! Guess!"

"Um...making pastries?" he asked in bemusement. While Harry had made no secret of his own intention to find odd jobs wherever possible, he hadn't put much thought into whether Dobby would be seeking employment, particularly since they were in an age unfriendly to elves.

"No! It is being better than that, even!"

Harry frowned, wondering what Dobby could get hired at that he enjoyed more than cooking. In their old world, it could have been a number of things, as the elf was a talented and hard worker. An elaborate wood craftsmanship job would have been his first guess, as Dobby had become known for them after his help rebuilding Hogsmeade - but it was highly unlikely in their new world that anyone would trust a house elf with such a task. Maybe someone had seen the elf sketching somewhere... "A portrait commission?"

"Better! Better!"

Befuddled, Harry shook his head at his enthused friend. "Alright, I give up. What is it, Dobby?"

Dobby, standing on the chair across from Harry, leaned forward with both arms on the table and his eyes seemed to be watering with tears of joy. "Babysitting!" he squealed in glee. "Dobby is to be babysitting!"

Harry stared for a moment and then began chortling. _Only Dobby would be so thrilled at spending time with rugrats._ Still laughing a bit, he returned Dobby's bright smile. "Congratulations, Dobby."

"Thank you Harry Pott- er, Plunkett!" he shouted, nearly forgetting Harry's alias in his excitement. "It is to be the babies we met the other day. They is being so sweet, Harry Po-Plunkett. Dobby is not knowing why Mrs. Fairfeather was so happy to find help but he is being more than glad to give it!"

His grin showing more teeth now, Harry thought he could imagine just why the woman would want freedom from two toddlers. He'd met a few and knew they were only sweet until something got their dander up. Still, this would not only make the tireless Dobby happy, it would give Harry hours in which he could move behind the elf's sights. Finding himself with time free of his friend's supervision on a regular basis sounded quite alright, considering the number of things they disagreed over. Little Hangleton, for one. "So, did she give you any trouble about getting paid?"

Dobby took on a more serious expression and said plainly, "Dobby thought she was going to faint. Then she started muttering to herself about things which Dobby is not repeating in front of his wizard, and she said something about the cost of buying her own House Elf, and then she nodded at Dobby and offered him fifteen knuts an hour. Of course, Dobby refused her. It is far too much to be paying for work that is fun. So instead Dobby is being paid six knuts an hour," he finished brightly.

"I wonder if," Harry said wistfully, "twenty-one years from now, Hermione Granger will still start '_SPEW_.'"

Dobby giggled. "It was certainly always making the Hogwarts Elves _spew_," he laughed guiltily behind his hands.

Harry chuckled back, pleased to see his friend's childish humor. "I should see about a job, too. I don't need a reputation as a layabout or a trust fund baby on tour."

"Is Harry Plunkett knowing where he is wanting to look, yet? The jokes shop is sounding fun."

"Yeah," he agreed, "getting to work with Mr. Zonko, before he lost his sense of humor, would probably be amazing. But then it would cut off the opportunity to connect with the more serious students."

"The Death Eaters," Dobby said matter-of-factly.

"Potential ones," Harry nodded. "One thing's for sure; if I got work in a prank shop, my chances of befriending Severus Snape would be a lot more than halved."

"Dobby's wizard can not always be as people wish him to," Dobby said with one of those concerned frowns that Harry thought was supposed to make him feel something besides chided and edgy. Sorry, perhaps.

"I know," Harry reassured, "I'm not going to be playing poster boy for anyone, don't worry. If I did, it would really defeat the point of all this, you know?"

Dobby nodded, still giving him a worried look.

"I've just got to make the right first impressions. On everyone. Tricky mess that is," he muttered quietly. "I do have a few ideas though..." A wicked smile came to his face that immediately set Dobby at ease. "_Oh,_ but I'm going to have fun playing with Abe this morning!"

"Afternoon," Dobby calmly corrected his wizard.

Harry assumed a defensive scowl. "Not in the Hog's Head, Mister. Afternoon doesn't crawl through this muck until five. It's morning until the fat goat-"

"Sings?"

"If that's what you'd like to call it I won't hold it against you."

Dobby sighed heavily. "Harry Plunkett is forgetting something."

Tilting his head a bit in curiosity, he asked, "And what might _that_ be?"

"Mister Aberforth is over thirty years younger here."

Harry sat up straighter. "Do you think - does that really change the bar's schedule?" He bit his lip, thinking of the Abe _he_ knew, a man who never liked to waste his own time. "He likes to sleep in," he weakly argued, "he's hardly awake when he opens the bar. He stumbles until ten!"

Dobby nodded pragmatically, humoring his wizard's point. "Yes, Harry Plunkett, _in the future_."

"Oh. Oh, oh - I have to go." He stood up quickly, looking about him as though he knew he needed to grab something but wasn't sure what it was or where to find it.

"Harry Plunkett's wand?"

"Right! Bed," he said as he both pointed and walked towards it, then he stopped midstride and stared at the neat coverlet in confusion. "Um.." He snapped his fingers and whirled back around. "Sink, I left it on the bathroom sink." He went in and retrieved it and came out to find Dobby staring at him with a bemused expression.

"Is Harry Plunkett alright?"

"Yes, yes, just a lot to think of." He tucked his wand behind his ear before thinking better of it and slipping it into a deep inner pocket of the white button down.

Dobby cast a suspicious look around the room. "Dobby has heard that mold spores can be harmful to the mind but he was not thinking they worked so quickly..."

"I'm _fine_, Dobby," he insisted as he went out the door.

Sitting patiently at the table, Dobby waited.

The door opened again.

"Forgot my shoes..."

**

* * *

**

When Harry came out passed the privacy curtain of the first floor hall and into the Hog's Head bar, he sauntered out with less obvious caution than he'd used before, going straight to the bar after a peripheral scan and sitting down as he covered a small, faked yawn with his hand. Within a moment, Abe was standing in front of him and Harry offered up a shy smile. "Good morning." The man grunted. After having spent a ridiculous amount of time living in the Hog's Head in his old world, Harry easily recognized it as moderate amusement. "Afternoon?" he guessed with a sheepish grin, resisting the urge to overdo the act by ducking his head.

"Some time 'round there," Abe agreed. "What'll it be?"

"Meade," Harry answered easily, as he intended to keep answering until a greater knowledge of alcoholic beverages wouldn't smudge his good boy character. A mostly clean mug was slammed down in front of him before Abe began pouring into it. "Thank you, sir." Another grunt, and running it over his memories, he recalled that this one normally came when Abe wanted to ask a question but didn't feel it was his place. Curiosity, that was the sound. Harry opened his mouth before Abe could. "Mister Aberforth?"

After looking at him for just a single second as though he were something completely foreign, he asked, "Yeah? What is it, kid?"

"I was wondering, yesterday, when Mist- um, when Hagrid," he said with forced unfamiliarity, as though he were afraid he was being horribly rude by not saying 'Mister' first, "was here yesterday, you'd already told him about me."

Abe narrowed his eyes. "Yeah," he growled, "it's my bar, I'll say what I want."

Harry's eyes widened. "Of course you can! That's not what I meant. I'm sorry. What I meant was that you'd heard more about it than what Dobby and I told you."

"Gossip spreads like wildfire 'round here. If you're gonna keep being a spectacle, get used to it," he said carelessly, and began to wipe the bar down with a mostly dirty cloth.

He wished he could make himself blush but perhaps it was better he couldn't. It may have been the first time Harry Plunkett had heard that from Abe but Harry Potter had been dealt the like at the Hog's Head a number of times, until it had all actually sunk in. "I was wondering-"

"Then get on with it, for Merlin's sake!"

Harry's smile was, perhaps, a bit too brazen yet for Harry _Plunkett_. "How apprised are you of job offers around here? I don't like to spend without earning."

That made Abe stop, staring at him a second with his head tilted as though he were trying to interpret an abstract sculpture. When he straightened his neck back up, he 'humphed' rather loudly and then leaned his elbows against the bar so that he and Harry were eye-level. "You got any skills?"

Harry smiled enigmatically. "A few."

It earned him a raised eyebrow. Message: I'm unimpressed and you'd better not be (insert imaginatively crude expression here) with me, kid.

_Message received._ Sobering up, Harry quickly began listing the things which made him worth an employer's time. "Defensive, Deceptive and Protective Warding are the skills I usually sell. I've also got Dueling, Defense and Arithmancy Masteries, Potions, Charms and Ancient Runes Commendations, a Silver Rose in the field of Herbology and a Platinum Vipertooth in Care of Magical Creatures." He made sure not to slump, knowing that all the stuffy traditional medals, trophies and pendants which would prove his claims, were upstairs waiting, snuck into his clothes satchel by Dobby. Those damn pretentious baubles... "I've also got some talent in Divination," he told the gobsmacked bartender, "but nothing really impressive."

Abe gave a loud snort that sounded mildly painful. He then turned his head and spat beside himself onto the floor behind the bar. "Nah," he said when he turned back to face Harry, "nothin' impressive 'bout you at all. Sorry, kid."

"Oh," Harry said in a slightly hurt tone, "really? Are you sure no one needs any-"

"Nope. Not a soul I know can use you. Should have gotten into the liquor business, kid. It's the only thing reliable," he said with a sage nod, resuming his swiping down the counter with the filthy rag he'd been holding.

Harry nodded back, trying to look a bit lost now that he'd supposedly had his hopes dashed. Really, he _had_ been hoping for something; he'd wanted to see Abe fall over or at least swear profusely in exclamation. _Perhaps I really am unimpressive,_ he thought wistfully, _wouldn't that be a kick to Hermione and Neville, after they'd gone and made me take so many unnecessary tests of merit?_

Alas, his dream of being completely unremarkable was batted away from him as first a short burly looking man with a great ginger beard sat to his left and then a high and wide-browed blonde in tailored robes sat to his right. Just as he was looking from the assessive hazel eyes on one side to the plaintively curious baby blues on his right, someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned about to look up into an angular face framed by a shaggy mop of black hair. He was surrounded.

Giving a hesitant smile, he asked, "Can I help you gentlemen?" All three leaned toward him a bit more and he bit back a laugh. _Let the negotiations begin._

**

* * *

**

Lying to his wizard was something Dobby would never do. However,_ misleading_ Harry Potter, when done for the wizard's own benefit, was a matter he felt only _slightly_ guilty over. After all, Dobby had never told Harry Potter whether he was babysitting the Fairfeather children _today_ and his wizard had not asked. If Harry Potter assumed that was what Dobby would be off tending to, then it was simply a sign that his wizard held no interest in Dobby's hours away. Dobby could be reached with just one call from his wizard, wherever he was, so there was no danger in the minor deception.

Sitting on the bed in their room, watching as most of the other dots in the Hog's Head on the Hogsmeade map began gravitating towards Harry Potter's, Dobby set the parchment down face open upon the coverlet, feeling satisfied that his wizard would be busy for a good length of time. Pulling his knapsack over directly in front of him, he began rooting through his beloved socks and sweaters, reaching into the bottom of the bag for the clothing which would stand out against his searching fingers, because it was rolled into neat little balls. His thumb brushed over the only item of silk he owned and shifted over to a few more rolls of fabric to grasp around a rough woolen one. Pulling it out, he held the edges and shook the black elf-sized robe free.

Maintaining the guise of a human was easy enough but he could never form a completely flawless imitation of what wizard's wore through magic. It was probably because he'd much rather be walking around in a bright fluffy sweater.

Dobby rushed into the newly clean bathroom with the hand which held his robe raised, causing it to fly out behind him like a banner. He popped up onto the sink and stood before the still slightly grimy mirror which hung against the wall and was nearly tall enough to serve as a full-length mirror for him. Changing his sweater for the robe, he looked at his reflection intently as he concentrated on making the change in appearance from elf to wizard. After only a moment, he'd resumed the same guise he'd taken on the day before, olive green eyes peering out mischievously from behind dark red bangs. His ears felt crushed and his waist pinched but it was well worth it.

A wizard's life was what he had grown to emulate in his old world and after experiencing the freedom and respect which came with it, he was not at all prepared to give it up. Besides, a wizard, even a half-breed one, could find the sort of employment which would satisfy both Dobby's mind and purse. A wizard could meet opportunities and hold powers which an elf could only dream of. A wizard could stand beside Harry Plunkett in times when a House Elf would be no help.

Giving his reflection a conspiratorial smile, Dobby apparated away from Hogsmeade with a snap.

**

* * *

**

"Walter Fen," the ginger-bearded one said as he held out a hand for Harry to shake, "ya say you got a Vipertooth in Creatures? Don't that take speaking talent?"

"It requires a competent level of clear communication with one or more dangerous species," Harry politely confirmed.

"Fascinating," the dark-haired man in front of him said in an absent tone which implied it was anything but, "now, tell me, what skill level is your Deceptive Warding at?"

Harry shrugged. "I can hide your house so that you'll never find it."

"How useful," the blonde said with an eye roll, "I do hope it won't take long." Becoming serious, he said smoothly and straightforwardly, "I'm hiring Defense experts as security over a two week trip. I've already assembled a team of three but additional precautions are seldom unwise. I would require you to pass a screening exam, of course, as well as present proof of your Dueling, Defense and Creatures credentials."

Harry refrained from blinking, even as he wondered if the man was a Malfoy. His no-nonsense address, the fact he'd held Harry's eyes the entire time and his slow, cultured manner of speech distinctly reminded him of Lucius. "And where would your trip be taking you, sir?"

The man sneered, as though scenting cowardliness. "Through a tropical reserve with anti-apparition wards. Further information is not for those uninvolved in the venture, of course. If there is a challenge you would hesitate to face, then you aren't qualified."

He wondered if a Malfoy would ever conduct his business even as openly as this. Draco was this bold but Lucius held his sense of decorum as closely as his wand.

"Alright, you've got my interest. When do I try out? And, sorry, but what's the pay?"

The man smirked and that did it for Harry. Malfoy, indubitably Malfoy.

He retrieved a calling card from an inside cloak pocket and passed it over. "Owl me and we can arrange to work out the details privately. Something about discussing money in a room that smells of goats doesn't agree with me."

Harry couldn't have stopped his smile if he'd wanted to, as the man reminded him more strongly than ever of his snarky best mate. Looking down at the card, he was surprised to find it read _Gregoras Bulstrode,_ in fine emerald script. _Of course, all the purebloods are interbred so that hardly means anything._ He almost stood and held out his hand as the other man seemed about to walk away, then he reminded himself that an introduction with an unknown name was worth less than nothing to a purebloodist, which both Bulstrodes and Malfoys notoriously were, even in this new world. Instead he gave a respectful nod and pocketed the card.

As Gregoras made his exit, Harry turned to the remaining two who were supposedly interested in his services. They each looked a bit bitter and angry at having been ignored while someone else manipulated their prospect. The ginger one, Walter Fen, the only one who had started by introducing himself, recovered first. Grabbing Harry's bicep as though to keep him from being snatched away, he asked, "Tell me, lad, what were your creatures then?" as though they'd never been interrupted.

"I proved myself to have kinship with Hippogriffs, Thestrals and Griffins."

"Griffins!"

Aware that everyone in the room was now staring at him, he nodded. "Once you've mastered one animal language it's actually rather simple to gain a rudimentary understanding of another." The dark-haired man who'd been standing in front of him for so long huffed impatiently and then stalked off but Harry was hardly concerned.

"Really?" the man breathed.

_Sure, if you're a parseltongue._ "Yes. At least," he amended, "it was for me." Adding on an innocent shrug, he made a mental note that he also needed to look into a Wizard's Dueling House soon, as all this placid passive-assertiveness was starting to make him feel a mild itch for what would normally become an explosively dangerous throw-down with Draco, who understood the need to blow off steam with acts of power and violence better than anyone else Harry had ever met. _I'll have to get used to pummeling strangers instead. Luckily Harry Plunkett is supposed to be a paranoid bastard and it's now public knowledge that I've got a Dueling Mastery._

"I could use a spot of help training some Granians. They're meant to be fit for a carriage, mind you, and that takes impressing more manners on them than they'd like. Just hatched a month back, growing like weeds and eating half their weight every day. They're a handful, my boy."

Harry, who knew what it was to tame a Griffin for battle, only smiled cockily at the idea of a flock of inbred grey winged horses. "How many?"

**

* * *

**

Draco had been sopping drunk for two days. This was not terribly unusual but it was the first time in a long while that he'd gone so long without having an idiot friend bounce through his fireplace to either join him or drag him out somewhere. He and Longbottom had both taken two week leaves from their Auror duties, so he at least didn't have to worry about needing to get to work for awhile. Longbottom had gone his own way, of course, off to do responsible things while the filthy, sycophantic Malfoy heir went about corrupting his own liver, as corruption was simply the Malfoy trade. Never mind doing honest work for years and having put his neck beneath the guillotine for the Wizarding World during the war, no, he was just an ex-Death Eater _atoning_, Longbottom was the _hero_ Auror, so he could be left to do the martyr side of heroing, too.

Potter and he had done that side of it before and Draco was glad to be rid of it. The first time he'd met Potter as a friend, the night he'd promised loyalty to the bloody Light, he had hardly been able to stop staring at him, at how tired and worn he looked and the way he seemed to be burning from within. The boy he'd thought he'd known in school hadn't been there at all, and he'd marveled at the changes. When Peter 'Wormtail' Pettigrew kidnapped him and took him to Potter as an offering in his own bid for forgiveness, he'd been stuffed in a sack and felt sure that if he wasn't accidentally suffocated or bludgeoned to death by the idiot Pettigrew, then surely he'd be killed by Potter, his hot-headed rival who actually had reason to do it. What a surprise he'd gotten instead...

_January 4, 1998_

_Cold air brushed through the rough weave of the cloth he'd been crumpled into but even as he cursed Wormtail for being stupid enough to risk killing what the idiot thought was his only offering to the Light, the better part of his brain was shrieking and clamoring in panic, insisting he think of something to save himself with, in an instant. He'd been drugged, his at first sluggish senses had worked that out quickly enough. It was possible he had Jelly Joint hexes cast on his knees and elbows, or else either the cold or the drugs were having more of an effect on him than he wanted to deal with. Narrowing his eyes, he supposed it could also just be the poor circulation his limbs were getting. The thought of being brought to Harry Potter's door as a present and not even being able to stand up and face him like a man had him silently cursing through Silencio'ed lips._

_He was practically being dragged and what really galled him was that he was sure it was only out of laziness, as there had to be a lightening charm on him, or possibly the sac, or else the fat and weak Pettigrew would have never have made it out the front door with him. Assuming he took the front door. Taking a ragged breath of recycled air, he tried to calm himself. Complaining would do no good, not then. His time was running out and he needed to think, unless he wanted to let either Pettigrew or Potter kill him._

_He snorted in bitter humor at the thought of fighting to save his life. What life was that again? The life of a fugitive, a murderer, a shamed son? The life of Severus Snape's apprenticed lackey? Of the vicious Dark Lord's whipping dog? Yes, of course, it was perfectly logical to fight his way from a fellow Death Eater's grasp, traitor though he was, and run to who exactly? His enslaved parents? His insane Lord? Such a peaceful home he had to escape back to. Perhaps it would be better to simply let Potter kill him._

_Draco flinched as he wondered again what the incompetent man carrying him had given him to put him to sleep. Suicide was not an acceptable option for Malfoys. They were fighters and if his father could withstand Azkaban and his mother could brave out living as a captive of the Dark Lord, he could handle riding in some cheap little sac and confronting his childhood rival. So what if Potter was being touted as the leader of the Order of the Phoenix? Who could really believe that stupid ol' Potty was the Defender of Diagon, as the Prophet boasted, or the devil incarnate, as a few rookie Death Eaters had muttered to each other? It didn't matter at all that Draco himself was a young recruit and had the boy's personal loathing. He wasn't scared. Not unduly anyway._

_The nauseating swinging he'd been enduring suddenly came to an end and he swallowed, hoping that Wormtail had just decided not to go through with things after all. If that were the case, he'd be magnanimous enough to only maim and not murder the repugnant man._

_The click of a boot against pavement registered before his own steady movement. Pettigrew was walking in a purposeful stride and Draco just knew that their destination was in sight. He was being carried to his death and what had he done? Wasted his last moments. He squeezed his eyes shut, thought of his parents who loved him and his friends who sometimes looked a bit sad about having abandoned him. A voice in his mind that he normally tried to subdue came to the forefront of his turmoil as his greatest comfort, telling him that this was justice and at least if he was punished, he'd be absolved of his sins, so long as he accepted it as his turn. He'd gotten Dumbledore killed after all, just when the man had offered him freedom and safety, and it had severely crippled the common wizard's cause, which every day he felt was more his own than his enemies.' Justice, he heard the quiet voice insist, this would bring him peace._

_He wanted to snarl that he didn't want justice or peace, he wanted freedom and to hex half the living world. Unfortunately he was still silenced and even if he weren't, the breath was knocked out of him as he was unceremoniously dropped to the hard ground. Moisture seeped through the cloth and he grimaced even as his heart tried to fly out his throat in panic at what this meant._

_Was Potter standing there before them? He didn't hear anything besides Pettigrew's whiny breaths and the flickers of insects in the night. Who would open the bag? Would they open it at all? Perhaps the matter of confirming his identity would be solved after lighting the sac on fire, so that he'd be burning to death, deed done, without the Great Gryffindors ever having to look him in the eye first. But no, he thought, that wouldn't entertain them much with the silencing spell on. Could the Avada Kedavra go through the bag then? It could go through clothes of course so he had to assume that what he'd been considering his last shelter from the world awaiting him was in fact less than useless, except as the mercy of a blindfold. Malfoys may accept mercy with gratitude and pursed lips but only for their lives or money. 'An indignity today to the dignitaries of tomorrow,' that was what his father said. If he were going to die, if tonight was his last night as a Malfoy, he wanted to face his killer, even if he couldn't stand._

_"Expelliarmus!"_

_There was a rattling outside and Draco felt something like conviction as he recognized Potter's voice, gruff as it was._

_"H-Harry! I-I've come alone, like I said. I've br-brought him," Pettigrew said in a plaintive whine._

_"Let me see," Potter said in a hard tone._

_"Of-of course!" Draco flinched downward as the fastenings above his head were man-handled by Pettigrew. As the traitor's fat warty face was revealed to him, a sneer of disgust took hold of his features. The bag dropped from his field of vision and he looked forward impulsively, something telling him that he needed to understand his situation as quickly as possible. He froze, sneer slipping into a mask of disbelief and fear. Potter was standing there with a perfect poker face, stiff and holding his wand in a white-knuckled grip. He looked different somehow and after a moment details started feeding themselves into Draco's mind, telling him that this wizard wasn't familiar at all, too gaunt, too hard, too angry to be little old Scarhead. "Ou-our deal, Harry? The Malfoy child in exchange for Order protection?"_

_"The Order has nothing to do with this!" the new Potter snapped, briefly taking his eyes off of Draco. They returned to him slowly as he continued speaking to the traitor. "This earns you my protection only, Wormtail. One last chance and if you cross me, it's your life," he said in a quiet voice that had Draco believing in his ability to murder. It took him a moment to realize that the wizard had said it looking straight at him and that he wasn't quite sure of just which Death Eater the deal had been spoken to._

_"I under-understand, Harry. Slip of the tongue." The lump of wasted wizard gave a nervous chuckle and if Draco hadn't been so distracted, he would have given his best Malfoy glare._

_"Yes," Potter said with a veiled edge, "that happens a lot to you, doesn't it?"_

_There was a moment of panicked gasping that nearly diverted Draco's racing thoughts from the implications of Potter's ambiguous statement. "Pa-past is passed, Harr-ry. Things were - I was - you must understand!" Pettigrew squealed in fear. Then, something strange happened and Draco actually did turn to look up at the bloody ugly half-wit. He took a deep breath and then spoke with, of all things, calm. "I'm here about the future. Harry, I know that nothing can bring James back-"_

_"Or my mum? Wouldn't you want her alive? Or Sirius?" Potter was looking more and more familiar as he looked ready to either pounce on Pettigrew or spout steam._

_"Nothing can change what's happened," he continued bravely, "but I'm here to help change what's still to come. Please, I've brought you the betrayer of Hogwarts. By coming here I'm signing my life over to you, whether you keep your word or not there's no going back for me."_

_"How long did you spend practicing that in front of the mirror?"_

_Pettigrew flushed scarlet but maintained his solid stance, one Draco would have never imagined him assuming in the first place. "A few days," he admitted shamelessly._

_"Right," Potter said, and the muted Draco looked back to him. "You don't need to give me the rest of your spiel. Not yet at least. I've already told you, Wormtail, you're getting this last chance. But it's going to be on my terms and if I ever see one whisker out of alignment I'll put you down before you've seen it coming."_

_With the return of the new hard Potter, the old quivering Pettigrew revived quite quickly, trembling and muttering ascent. Draco tuned out the groveling and decided to simply mind the wizard in charge, who was staring down the rat with little effort. Of course, it never did take much effort to intimidate Pettigrew._

_"I'm going to have to take precautions. You should already know that, though. I'm the only one here for a reason and if I'm going to be accepting a traitor back into the Light's confidence, I'm at least obligated to make sure you won't turn on me." Pettigrew forewent answering and instead trembled and gibbered senseless noises. Potter raised his wand, not improving the performance of the Death Eater's mental faculties. "Stupefy!"_

_Draco's heart stood still as Pettigrew fell to the ground, leaving him more alone with Potter than he'd like to be. He raised his eyes to meet the other wizard's and tilted his chin up defiantly._

_Potter's lips quirked up. "Scared, Malfoy?"_

_'You wish,' he would have liked to reply. He nearly choked when Potter's expression changed from that of someone about to have fun committing acts of torture to the look of something soft and foreign. He took a few steps closer to Draco, who still sat helplessly in a crumpled heap on the ground, and then he crouched down so that they were at eye-level._

_"I'm going to have to stun you for transport," he said in a flat tone. "When you wake up you'll be in a basement cell. It's a bit clammy and bare - but completely safe."_

_His eyes widened at somehow hearing what he wanted to, with the exception of the 'cell' bit. Surely it was a joke. He narrowed his eyes in a glare, not about to be suckered into Potter's little game. Giving a fierce glare, he felt almost as though he were on familiar grounds as Potter reciprocated with a smirk, as though about to insult him. He was actually startled as the stunner he'd just been warned about hit him._

_When he woke, he felt strangely rested, in spite of his aches. It took a few minutes of wondering why his bed felt so odd before he bolted up and looked around, memories flooding him. He was in a small bedroom with sparse furnishings and a cement floor. There were two doors in the room and as he remembered that he was supposed to be imprisoned, he stood to check. One door led to a small bathroom and the other led to a second door that had been hidden behind it, comprised of iron bars. He grasped the cold bars and took ragged breaths, trying to catch up to his new situation without having a panic attack._

_Potter had brought him to someone's basement. He was supposed to be 'safe' here, the way that an animal is 'safe' in a zoo. Was Potter collecting Death Eaters? He shook his head. Ridiculous and not at all helpful. Of course, everything about his past two days had been unbelievably out of form. If muggle children began parading passed the bars pointing and staring in wonder, then he'd know._

_After a few minutes he heard footsteps coming from further down the hall beyond his barred door. Potter came into sight, balancing two wands on a tray of food in one hand and holding out a ring of keys in the other. "Sorry about the security," he said in a way that was almost believable, "it's just a bit necessary though. I'm sure you understand."_

_Draco arched an eyebrow and asked, "Nervous about having a Death Eater in your house?" Then he blinked in surprise at being able to say it, which meant that Potter had probably removed the Silencio from him._

_"Cautious," Potter corrected with an amused smirk. "Stand back." Eyeing the food, which smelled rather tempting, Draco stepped back and allowed Potter to enter his cell unmolested. The other wizard set the tray down on a small side table and though Draco eyed the two wands with more hunger than he felt for the food, he remained still at the implications. Potter had brought both their wands. The other wizard walked to one of two arm chairs in the room and sat back, waiting. Draco retrieved the tray and set it on the stand beside the low twin bed, feeling disinclined towards sitting in close-quarters with Potter before learning what the rules of whatever game this was were. He sat on the bed, facing Potter, and picked up a soft buttered roll to chew on as he waited for the pendulum to fall._

_Potter watched him with sharp eyes and then suddenly cocked his head to the side and gave a small smirk. "I never expected I'd have to make civil conversation with you. I'm not sure where to start."_

_"How about what the hell's going on?" Draco asked with more boldness than he felt._

_The smirk turned into a sad smile. "Well, that's a bit complicated. It's easier answered by you, actually. Malfoy, do you enjoy being a Death Eater?"_

_He felt a deep cold sweep over him. "You mean do I want to be a spy for you?"_

_"No. I'd never ask that of you or of anyone. Not even Wormtail has that in his deal."_

_A rage born of helpless frustration was beginning to burst. "Then what in Merlin's name do you want from me? If you aren't going to kill me or use me then what's this all for? Are you just going to keep me here in a cage like some pet as revenge? Where am I, anyway, the new Azkaban?"_

_"No. Not officially. I've named it 'Hedwig's Roost.' My home. Also unofficially. It's under the Fidelius, so if you or Peter were to leave you would not be able to find your way back. I'm the only one with free access to the house, so there's no danger of anyone from the Order dropping in or the house being seized by Aurors or Death Eaters, if that's what you're thinking. I told you it was safe here and I meant it."_

_"Quit stalling and answer my first question!" Draco snapped, feeling more edgy with every calm word Potter offered._

_Potter sighed, looking weary. He leaned forward and gave Draco an earnest look. "Dumbledore's last spoken wish was for your protection. What I want from you is cooperation, so that I can fulfill his wish without jeopardizing myself or the Order. I don't expect you to-"_

_"Believe you? That's good. I don't."_

_"-work for me or the Order, not if you don't want to. Just don't get in our way."_

_"I'm not a charity case, Potter!"_

_He gave a smile then with a glimmer of challenge in his eyes. "Good. I'd been hoping you wouldn't be."_

_Draco drew as much of his pureblood propriety around him as he could, given the circumstances. He tilted his chin up and his own eyes shone with a surety which he didn't quite feel. He was never one to back away from a challenge, and certainly not one issued by Harry bloody Potter._

_Justice, that inner voice echoed once more, this could bring him peace._

Amnesty, what he'd been craving since Dumbledore had first offered it to him, had been awarded by Potter of all people. It had seemed so impossible and he had worked so hard over the years to make sure he could keep it, to show that his sins were truly washed from his skin. _Of course, just spending so much time alone in a house with Pettigrew should have been punishment enough to clean my slate._

He shook his head as he realized that he was coming dangerously close to sobriety. "Kreacher!"

A whimpering noise came from the corner, followed by the pattering of little feet across the carpet of the library floor. The decrepit house elf stopped before where his master lay on the plush fur rug before the fire and rasped, "Yes master? What is the disappointing whelp wanting?"

Draco closed his eyes. Harry wanted him to be kind to the thing. This was the only burden he'd been asked to bear. He very carefully did not draw his wand and hex the damned thing cross-eyed. "Brandy, Kreacher," he said blandly. _"Now."_

"Yes, master, of course. Pathetic drunken waste," he muttered as he slinked away, "all over that wretched half-blood disgrace. Such ruin; Kreacher's young master was so fine once. Where has Kreacher gone wrong? The shame..."

_Killing Kreacher would be bad. I must behave. I must not torture him, either. It would break Harry's heart, the soft stupid sod. I don't want him to _- Draco's eyes snapped open. He was most certainly too sober as he remembered that Harry wasn't going to be doing _anything,_ as he was gone. Gone forever, having left Draco alone with the blustering diseased world he could barely stand not to hex. His hands shook even after he clenched them into fists, and he fought not to scream some obscenity after the path of Kreacher's muttering.

He swallowed and took a few unsteady breaths through his nose. Kreacher, his eighteenth birthday present and life-long responsibility to look after, in spite of the crimes the elf committed. Harry had gotten generous with second chances, after losing Dumbledore. At least, Draco _thought_ it was about the late headmaster. They hadn't had any communication until several months after it had happened so for all he knew, it was about the muggle relatives he hated being roasted on a public street one day or even about some random thing Lupin or Moody had said to him. Harry couldn't be bothered to take advice, of course not, but he listened to it, Draco had noticed, and he tended to listen best to those two, as though they had all the great answers to magic and the universe wrapped up in riddles inside their graying heads.

"Shame they're dead," he croaked aloud to himself, _since I don't think they'd have approved of this move of his at all._


End file.
